


Unexpected Development

by Rainicornucopia



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Sarcasm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3975238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainicornucopia/pseuds/Rainicornucopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The meeting of the snarkiest Breton in all of Skyrim and one arrogant Altmer Advisor was doomed to failure from the very beginning, but over time love can bloom even in the most unexpected of places.</p>
<p>Filled for the Skyrim_Kinkmeme. F!DB is simply referred to as 'The Breton' and her appearance is kept obscure for the reader's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Born into a land of courtly intrigue and civil strife, it came as no surprise to the Breton that she should stumble upon a political battle of wills only moments after stepping foot inside the gates of Winterhold's College.  
  
The masters of magic, though known for their keen grasp of spellcraft, are no strangers to a sharp tongue. As skilled in speech as they are in spells, and so the bellowing winds of Winterhold did little to muffle the flames of her fellow Breton's fury.  
  
She watched for a moment, as her fellow sister of High Rock, clad in purple robes, set-upon her companion – an Altmer, by the looks of it. He made no reproach, his countenance as eerie as the calm before the storm.  
  
Sweeping away the untouched snow, the Breton perched herself upon the courtyard's damp stone font. She gingerly cupped the tiniest of flames in rosy palms, left relatively untouched by the harsh elements of Skyrim's winter, as she waited for the flow of chastising scorn to ebb.  
  
The crunch of heavy footfalls mingled with the whistling of the wind, but even the dark robes sweeping across her vision were spared only a passing glance from beneath her sodden hood.  
  
A few moments later and the illustrious Mirabelle Ervine had gifted her with a firm grasp of the College grounds, a roof over her head and a bundle of apprentice robes of destruction crammed into her arms. A far cry from the life of a farmer's daughter in High Rock, but a vast improvement upon the few measly coins and the crumbling loaf of bread presently stuffed inside her small satchel.  
  
“Am I to attend the lecture immediately?” she inquired, shuffling to detach her damp robes which had already begun to cling and crystallize at the seams with flakes of frost.  
  
“You are welcome to take a moment to yourself, but do not keep Tolfdir waiting too long.” Mirabelle stated.  
  
“The contents of my wardrobe are quite limited at present so there is little to fear. Had I possessed a range of quality robes, well, that would be a different matter entirely.”  
  
“Yes, well, go on in when you are ready. I'm sure you are anxious to meet your fellow apprentices, and should you have any problems let one of our senior members know.” with that, Mirabelle departed and without a minute's hesitation, the Breton strode inside the Hall of Attainment.  
  
\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---  
  
Like it had been but moments prior, the Hall of Attainment was empty. The only sound to be heard, that of her boots tapping against the floor and the thrum of magical energies contained within the font.  
  
What little space in the hall remained untouched by dazzling opal magelight faded into dimly lit orange under the glow of candle light. Burning wicks enticed the shadows to waltz across the walls and as she laid her dry robes on the edge of a sturdy chair, she watched. Each darkened tendril twisted and twirled in a dance as fluid as the fine silk dresses belonging to the noble maidens of High Rock.  
  
This was, of course but a flight of fancy and nothing more than a figment of an over-active imagination. She had never stepped foot inside a noble's palace to know the condition of a noblewoman's dress, nor had she ever attended a soiree any more elegant than the local festivals in Daggerfall.  
  
'Quaint, and rather homely. If ever so slightly drab.' she thought to herself, patting away the accumulated dust from her coarse bedsheets.  
  
'More than satisfactory, however...' she dubiously eyed the exposed archway and back again to the folded robes across the chair.  
  
She carefully pondered the dilemma presented before her but the sudden and unexpected tread of feet against the floor indicated that her decision had been made by another. With one arm leveraged against the bed she had barely rose an inch from the surface before the newcomer appeared in her archway.  
  
“Another new Apprentice, I see.” the honeyed yet disdainful tone of a distinctly male voice? The lengthy stature, stretching a shadow across the entirety of her room? Without a doubt this was Altmer from before, the one Mirabelle had confronted.  
  
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” without skipping a beat, she rose to extend her hand in greeting. The gesture met with air but undeterred she continued. “Had I known to expect a housewarming of sorts, I would have dressed for the occasion.”  
  
“Do spare me your pleasantries.” he drawled. “I am here only to inform you of my role within the College; I am an advisor to the Arch-Mage, here at the behest of the Thalmor. As such I have neither the time nor am I obliged to listen to the petty problems of mere Apprentices. Should you have any concerns, I suggest you consult another member of the College.” the expression on his face was altogether apathetic.  
  
The hardened angles of his elven features, as if hewn from stone, served only to emphasise the jagged nature of his disdainful personality.  
  
As if in mockery of his own perceived superiority, her own face contorted into a snooty expression befitting the most haughty of Bretons.  
  
“A pity that I should be deprived of your wise counsel, but no matter. If I find myself in need of assistance then I am certain there will be plenty of books for perusal in the Arcaneum. The aroma of bound leather is far more pleasant than that of unjustifiable arrogance, after all.” venom laced each syllable, and as she swallowed, the bitterness of her own words lingered in her throat.  
  
“It would be wise to remember your position, Apprentice.” he crossed his arms. The delicate trim of his robes shone gaudily, casting flecks of golden light across the wet beige cloth she called robes. “I shall be watching you – all of you – very closely.” he warned as he slowly turned on his heels.  
  
From the corner of one amber eye he observed the shift in the Breton's weight and the defiant placement of a single hand on her hips.  



	2. Chapter 2

Many moons had passed since their initial confrontation and only by chance did she learn of his name, after a brief conversation with Nirya. A conversation which had promptly ended the moment Nirya uttered the words 'Handsome' and 'Ancano' in the same sentence.  
  
The longest conversation she had shared with the arrogant Altmer had been a brief discussion – if it could be called such, regarding the Orb found in the depths of Saarthal. After which she had been sent on a quest to the ruins of Fellglow Keep – a dangerous venture but worth the risk, particularly so simply to avoid Ancano's presence.  
  
She joyously welcomed the prolonged absence of interaction with Ancano, so much so that she had filled a spare drawer in her room with papers, drafting up plans to have the sour advisor replaced with a much more palatable Altmer.  
  
'Surely it would be a simple task for the Arch-Mage to re-instate Nelacar?' She thought, scribbling a small illustration of the conjurer in a margin entitled 'Suitable Replacements for Worthless Advisors'. The latter part of the sentence underlined thrice and circled with an arrow pointing towards a highly exaggerated sketch of the Advisor himself.  
  
Alas, as the saying goes 'Speak of the Daedra and he shall appear'.  
  
“You there, Breton.” The Arcaneum walls echoed with the unspoken demand for the Breton to come forth.  
  
The wooden legs of her weighty chair screeched in protest as they grated against the stone floor. Perched on the edge of her seat, the Breton languidly crossed one ankle over the other and tilted her head towards the looming figure.  
  
“After recent consultation with the Arch-Mage, it has been brought to my attention that there have been a number of slanderous rumours spread among your fellow apprentices regarding my position here at the College.” his narrowed amber eyes so sharp they bore a hole through her, analysing each involuntary twitch of muscle or hitch in breath for some sign of guilt.  
  
“My, is that an accusation?” she asked, straightening the pile of papers in front of her with little regard for whether their contents should offend him. “I'm terribly sorry to disappoint but I've been far too busy delving into musty old ruins on College business, and there isn't much opportunity for gossip among swarms of re-animated dead. Simple creatures such as they are, they prefer communication through action. Swinging edged weapons in my general direction, for example.” she stressed with the wave of her hand.  
  
“I did not come here to discuss your insignificant little ventures outside of the College grounds.” he spat.  
  
“That is a shame, and here I was even thinking of inviting you to accompany me on a small expedition to Bard's Leap. There's a challenge there I think you would be most interested to participate in.” impassiveness faltering, she could not stop the little upturned twist of her mouth.  
  
“I ask that you put a stop to these preposterous rumours at once.” sparks crackled deep within his throat, a warning to which she paid no heed.  
  
“Now that is a surprise. For an elf who made no attempt to conceal his contempt of my Apprenticeship, you certainly seem to consider my magical abilities to be on par with the Aedra – or the Daedra, I suppose.” any consequence she may face for her impertinence, would be worth the simple pleasure of basking in his grimace.  
  
“Do not flatter yourself, Breton. You lack comprehension of the most basic magical theory and the crude manner of your spell-casting could not even hope to place you on the level of a superior Mer such as myself.”  
  
“Then do enlighten me, oh superior Mer” she mocked “How am I to be expected to magically control the private conversations of the entire College?”  
  
“That is not my concern. I trust that you will put an end to this frivolity.” in one final act of warning Ancano stepped towards her until the tips of his boots just barely pressed against her own. Bending forward, he lessened the distance between their faces, the ends of his snowy hair tickling her full cheeks. “Am I making myself perfectly clear?” he asked.  
  
“Perfectly. In the meantime perhaps I will also waltz up to a Daedric Prince and indulge in some friendly conversation over a glass of wine. I would even ask it of him to gift me his artefact, should it please you.” She replied, leaning back in her chair and staring him straight in the eye.  
  
“Make no mistake, this is a task of the utmost importance and requires your immediate attention. Do not dally.” He answered cooly, despite the flash of displeasure in his eyes and the tension of the muscles in his neck.  
  
In spiteful defiance, the next three hours were spent hunting down the entirety of Winterhold's sweet roll stores. Following this, the subsequent struggle to maintain a prim-and-proper Breton appearance while in conversation with Onmund. A difficult task with lipstick-stained icing smeared on her chin and crumbs scattered in her cleavage.


	3. Chapter 3

“Onmund?” she asked, gently brushing a few stray crumbs from her robes.

“You have a little something...” the Nord mage awkwardly gestured towards the side of his mouth.

“Never mind that.” she shook her head abruptly, throwing from her mind the unpleasant reminder of the crumbling mass of icing fused to her cheek. “I simply wished to know your thoughts on the other members of the College?” the Breton asked, measuring her words carefully.

If these rumours were truly as slanderous as Ancano feared, then it would do no good to present the wrong impression of herself to her peers. The last thing she desired was to be thought of as Ancano's lackey – or worse, his ally.

Onmund cautiously and silently glanced towards the archway of his room. The stillness of the atmosphere interrupted only by the rustle of their robes and a distant cough.

“Brelyna's nice, although I don't think she appreciates her family enough. I wish...I wish my family were as enthusiastic about my studies.” the Apprentice hood he wore shadowed his downcast eyes. “If I only had their approval...” with unwavering resolve he stared at the back of his clenched fists, as if entranced by some invisible mark upon them.

“There are...” she hesitated. “There are different expectations placed upon those with magical ancestry.”

“Nords don't trust magic. Sometimes it's easy to forget that there are places where magic isn't shunned.” there was a wistfulness within his voice and the Breton had no doubt that if she looked into his eyes, she would find the blue orbs glossed over with child-like wonder.

A sudden thought occurred to her, a new line of questioning she had not considered before.

“Do you suppose the high population of Altmer in Winterhold has anything to do with their lineage?” slotting her fingers together as tightly as woven string, she tapped the pads of her thumbs together while she watched her fellow mage's nose wrinkle with thought.

“It's a possibility, but honestly, after my run-in with Enthir I try to keep my distance from the senior members of the College.” he reached for the amulet circling his neck, rubbing the worn metal between his fingers.

“Yes, I see why. I had the most unpleasant conversation with Arch-Mage Aren's Advisor earlier.” deep down she felt that she should sour at the recollection, but no frown would grace her face.

“I'm grateful to have never spoke with him personally. I know he claims to be here simply as an advisor but I also know that no one really believes that.” Onmund's elated relief sharply morphed into a fearful whisper, as his eyes shiftily searched around the room.

“One would have to be a fool to believe that” the Breton quickly interjected. “I trust you're of the same opinion?”

“He's suspicious, you said it yourself. I don't know for certain but I think he's up to something and it would be best to try and avoid him. I'm certain the Arch-Mage can handle any trouble.”

“It would be wise to remain cautious. I dread to think of the terrible revenge he may exact, should he ever become aware of our thoughts.” she whispered, wringing the hem of her robes between her fingers in mock fear.

“I... I never thought about that. D-do you really think he would consider revenge? Over a small matter like this?” the fear in his voice was evident, no matter how icy his Nordic exterior.

“Well, I don't believe the Thalmor are the sort to simply brush this type of behaviour under the rug. As far as overzealous and xenophobic organisations in Skyrim go, their sense of humour is rather lacking.”

That had been all that required for Onmund to politely excuse himself from her company.

If fortune was kind, he would spread further fear of Ancano's wrath throughout the remainder of the College and put an end to the rumours – and her forced co-operation, once and for all.

Should she be so lucky.

\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

In retrospect it would have been logical to seek out Ancano immediately after speaking with Onmund, but here she was, two evenings later and silently skulking outside of his archway. It was doubtful there would be any ramifications for the delay, however that was unlikely to make the exchange any more bearable.  
  
“Are you quite sure we need to be speaking?”  
  
His honeyed voice caught her off guard and she jolted on the spot. A gust of air forcibly pushed itself from her lungs in one surprised exhalation and the palm of her hand flew to rest on her chest to still the startled heart beneath.  
  
'Was that really necessary!' her inner voice hissed contemptuously.  
  
She supposed she had brought it upon herself for staring but it was a rare occurrence to witness anyone in Skyrim reading a book on Conjuration, even within the College.  
  
'My enthusiasm merely had the better of me.' she reasoned, reassuring herself that she would rather consort with the homicidal necromancers scattered about the lands than the Altmer before her.  
  
“Quite” the word fell from her lips in a breathier manner than she had intended, which was yet another embarrassment to add to the evening's proceedings. “Did you truly believe I would come here to engage you in small talk?”  
  
“Very well.” he laid the offending book – The Doors of Oblivion – down onto the table, precariously close to the dripping body of a vibrant candle. “For what purpose do I owe the... _pleasure_ of your company?” for some the sarcasm in the Advisor's tone would be biting, but to the Breton it was nary more than a tickle.  
  
“It is most bemusing that the Thalmor should consider themselves to be the superior race, yet your basic manners leave much to be desired. Whatever do they teach you in the Summerset Isles?” without invitation – for it seemed she would not receive one - she poised herself on the end of the firm bed.  
  
“I can assure you that even the most degenerate peasant in Alinor would far surpass the barbaric race of men, in all respects. Now do tell me why you are here.” he ordered, taking a dignified sip from a nearby silver goblet.  
  
“I am here to criticize your deplorable taste in décor.” she sniffed, examining a nearby pile of straw. “I should also inform you that I have – at the very least – attempted to stem the rumours you so loathed.”  
  
“You may wish to take your concerns regarding the shabby state of this barren crag to the Arch-Mage. I am merely an Advisor and as such the poor state of this...establishment, is no concern of mine.” or so he claimed as he allowed the sweetness of the wine to wash over him once more, sinking back into the depths of his chair.  
  
“I was of the belief that finery was of great importance to the Thalmor, or do you bedeck yourselves in glittering gold thread for purposes beyond vanity? Not that I disapprove, of course.”  
  
“Is there more you wish to discuss, or are you simply here to waste my time?” he cast her a sideways glance, warm light reflecting in the polished surface of the goblet and setting his amber eyes aflame.

“I do apologise, although it did not occur to me that sitting on ones derrière was a sign of productivity. Nevertheless, I am curious.” perching her chin on curled knuckles, she examined him with hawkish eyes.

“There are many things at your disposal which you may use to sate your curiosity. I am not one of them.”

“Oh but I do disagree. So tell me, Ancano; if there is but a grain of truth to these tales, then what interest could the Thalmor possibly have in the College?” she batted her thick eyelashes. A flawed facade of innocent curiosity, if ever there was one.

“If you have successfully put a halt to these rumours as you claim, then I suggest you do not spoil your progress. Do not further spread this false information with your idle talk.” 

“Do you intend to usurp the Arch-Mage and transform the College into a place of gathering for high-ranking members of the Thalmor?”

“ _What?_ ” seething at the allegation, he rose in his chair. Poised and dignified, he stared down his angular nose at the smirking Breton.

“The Hall of the Elements would make a marvellous setting for discussing the 'barbaric' state of Skyrim over tiny little cakes, would it not?”

“What foolish nonsense. Return to your quarters at once, Breton.” the offended Altmer ordered.

“Foolish nonsense? How absurd. The selection of appropriate cake is a very serious concern, as a connoisseur of baked goods, I can attest to that.”

“Do not try my patience.” he seethed, whitened fingers gripped tightly around the wine goblet.

“As you wish.” she sighed. “I'd like to know more about the Thalmor.”

“What interest could a Breton have in the Aldmeri Dominion?” caught off guard by the question, Ancano stared at the Breton as if she had suddenly sprouted another head.

“I believe such knowledge would serve me well in the future. Should it help to protect my mind from whichever accursed tome or daedric prince you and your brethren have befallen, then I would gladly learn of the Thalmor's history.” hoping for a rise out of the Advisor, the Breton was left more than a little disappointed with his calm expression.

“That was exactly the kind of ill-mannered response I have come to expect in this uncivilized land.”

The disheartened Breton decided it was high-time to bid Ancano goodnight, lest any more of her sarcastic retorts backfire.

Whence she had first entered his abode, she had every intention of fleeing at the first opportunity. Now that their conversation had come to a close, she lingered.

He did not question why.

In a whirlind moment of impulsiveness, she reached for the table and grabbed the beautifully bound book. She tugged and tugged, but all attempts at escape were thwarted by the strong grip of a lithe golden hand around her wrist.

“Should you ever take a moment to puncture your over-inflated ego, you may come to realise that we aren't quite so different.”

The statement did little but elicit an unconvinced and listless huff from the elf, who immediately snapped away his hand with a roll of his eyes.

The tips of his electric fingers barely brushed against her smooth skin, a pleasant sensation but one which neither the Breton nor the Altmer cared to acknowledge.

She paced towards her room in a stupor, slapping the book down on the surface of her bed with an echoing 'thud!'.

Urag likely possessed a copy of the book in the Arcaneum; why she had bothered to take Ancano's book was a complete mystery to her, but gods only knows why he had allowed her to run-off with one of his possessions in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

“Thank you.” she said, polite words undermined as she curtly shoved the book towards him mid-stride.  
  
The Breton had hoped to return the book quickly to avoid a conversation in the middle of the snow strewn courtyard, but much to her dismay the scowling Altmer slowly spun to face her.  
  
Tiny clumps of snowflakes peppered his hair, dampening the silky strands to hang limp around his high cheekbones. The bottom of his face, while obscured by a misty cloud of warm air, did nothing to conceal his expression. The scornful arch of his brow was enough to indicate his sour mood, not that the Breton had come to expect anything other.  
  
Quickly wiped away a handful of snowflakes from the cover of the book, she watched with fretful eyes as the exposed edges of the crisp yellowed pages darkened with moisture.  
  
She impatiently nudged the book towards him once more, the light snowfall undoing her efforts.  
  
“There's no need for us to be speaking. Do not presume to bother me without good reason.” Ancano hissed, so coldly that one could easily be led to believe that frost had seeped into his very soul.  
  
The Altmer made his way towards the Hall of the Elements without so much as a backwards glance, drawing an outraged huff from the Breton.  
  
“Au contraire, dear Advisor.” she called after him, all hopes of a brief conversation now forgotten. “You possess so few items of value, I had thought it only polite to return this to you.”  
  
The loud collision of two solid wooden doors silenced her, until she too entered the hall with a mischievous sway to her step.  
  
“How impolite. Have I not lectured you on the atrocious state of your manners once before, Ancano?” she finished her sentence with a chastising 'tut', exuding composure from every pore, yet the book she carried remained protectively clasped to her chest.  
  
“The tome you carry is of no further use to me.” suspicion glimmered in the depths of his eyes, narrowed as they roved over the worn book. “I am doubtful of whether you possess the aptitude to read something of its complexity, but do with it what you will.” he abruptly waved her away like a bothersome torchbug.  
  
“I confess, I had no idea you were interested in the school of Conjuration. Loathe as I am to admit it, I am most impressed.” the briefest of smiles flickered across her lips.  
  
“Such is to be expected.” lacking in his usual bite, the Breton's niceties gave the Altmer cause for pause. “Students of magical study in Alinor hold themselves to a higher standard than your College. My expertise over the five schools of magic promoted my position here, but I am sad to say that I have yet to find someone of comparable merit in this land.” deep lines furrowed in his brow but the Altmer turned away, intent on disregarding the Breton's oddly sycophantic behaviour to return to studying the illuminated runes of Saarthal's mysterious orb.  
  
“Considering the circumstances, perhaps an elf of your immeasurable talent would be better suited elsewhere? I have heard the courts are most accommodating, particularly in Windhelm.” her sly suggestion did not go unnoticed as the Advisor's previous confusion vanished with the roll of his eyes.  
  
“Your obvious disregard for authority is typical of your ilk, Breton. My superiors have seen fit to send me here in order to lead the people of Skyrim towards a better future.”  
  
Phase 1 of the Breton's plan to rid the College of the Advisor had ended in complete failure.  
  
“A novel idea. One's head mounted on the wall as a trophy above a bronzed placard reading 'Breton' – or variations thereof – is a future undoubtedly destined to resonate with the masses.” she threw her arms out to the side in an exaggeratedly graceful display, as if to welcome the future with open arms.  
  
“I have no time for your preposterous theories” lithe golden fingers massaged the tensed muscles lining the arched bridge of his narrow nose. “Be assured, the Thalmor have no interest in one such as you.”  
  
His words ignited within her a sudden spark of emptiness which aggravated a sickening flip in the recesses of her stomach. Flustered by the the nonsensical feeling and unable to fathom the cause, the Breton pushed the bubbling emotion down with a shake of her head.  
  
“Do correct me if I am mistaken, but you appear to have little interest in anything.” her tone was jovial, but she stared beyond him with hardened eyes until he was nothing more than a shapeless blur of ebony and gold.  
  
“I do not have the time to correct each of your foolish and misinformed statements.”  
  
“My, aren't we in a bad mood this morning?” a sense of relief washed over her; her sarcastic taunts coupled with his snide arrogance restored the normality of the situation.  
  
“Do not patronise me, Breton. My well-being is none of your concern.” he visibly prickled, despite full-awareness of the Breton's insincere concern for his emotional health.  
  
“Oh so serious, and I thought we were having so much fun.”  
  
“Yes, your petty form of amusement has not escaped my notice.”  
  
An uncomfortable silence fell across the room as the Breton's smooth fingers traced the embroidered border of the book – her book – in a momentary fit of indecision.  
  
'To flee or not to flee?' she pondered.  
  
Her plan to quickly return the book had failed, as had her plan to send the Advisor off to a tea-party with Ulfric Stormcloak. The yellow rays of the sun had just barely begun to battle the glowing orb of Saarthal through the window, so there were more than enough hours in the day to search far and wide for a less volatile avenue of assistance.  
  
'Asking Ancano would surely end in yet another failure.' she told herself, but proceeded anyway to shrug away her inner monologue and shoo the demons whispering warnings in her ears.  
  
“Are you forgetting our little conversation? You and I are really quite similar, Ancano.”  
  
“These...similarities you claim we share, they are nothing more than mere illusions. Tricking yourself into believing that you could possibly be equal to a superior Mer like myself is a fool's errand.” the sharp snap of his head caused droplets of water from strands of his hair to lash upon her face.  
  
“Your deranged Thalmor rhetoric asserts itself once more.” nonchalant, she wiped the droplets away with the flick of her fingertips. “I was simply suggesting that we both have a keen interest in the school of Conjuration.”  
  
She hadn't, there was much more to be said but the goal at hand far outweighed any personal pleasure she would derive from plucking at the Altmer's patience and delving into the dark depths of his mind.  
  
“I have made this quite clear. Tell me, is this the sole basis of your argument?” he asked with a sneer, intent on disproving the Breton's point and highlighting the differences between them.  
  
“You are an argumentative one. I find the perception of magic in Skyrim to be...troublesome. The study of magic is under-appreciated, I am sure we can agree on that much?”  
  
“I am well aware of your misendeavours throughout Winterhold. If you were truly as concerned with your studies, you would spend more of your time with a spell tome in your hand instead of indulging yourself in pastries.”  
  
Resisting the temptation to raise a hand to her heated cheeks required the greatest restraint, which explained why the Breton immediately cooled the rosy flush with a chilled palm.  
  
“I would take your criticism to heart, had I not witnessed you veritably drown yourself in wine.”  
  
“Is there a point to made here? Or are you content to embarrass yourself further?” he asked impassively, but the airy quality to his voice alerted the Breton to the concealed emotion therein.  
  
“The latter, which I'm sure will please you.” she curtsied as if in service. “I offered to partake in a fellow Apprentice's experiment and the results were, well, they should not be spoken of...” the memory of Brelyna's experiments tore from her a wince. Nevermore could she look a horker in the eye.  
  
“Unsurprising, of course, but I do not see the relevance to the topic at hand.” the unspoken question demanded an answer.  
  
“I have developed a certain affinity for my beloved flame atronach, but the creature can barely light kindling. At this point, I would do well to pit myself against a fully-armoured bandit chieftan with a butter knife.”  
  
“If you require assistance-”  
  
“Contact another member of the college.” she imitated in the most exaggeratedly haughty voice she could muster. “I require the knowledge to summon a frost atronach. Problematically, my fellow Apprentices are as knowledgeable of Conjuration spells as you are in the art of conversation, and Phinis would see fit to line his pockets with gold first.”  
  
“On a number of occasions you have detailed your...activities outside of the College, I suggest you seek whichever acquaintances you can outside of the College.”  
  
“How ever did I fail to consider that idea? I do apologise, I feel most embarrassed.” she wailed, voice laden with sarcasm. “My fellow brothers and sisters in Skyrim seem content to squander their magical gifts on opening shops dedicated to 'trinkets, odds and ends, that sort of thing'. Even if Mara's divine will bestowed upon me the power to cross the border into High Rock - where the study of mercurial forces is encouraged - I have yet to see a farmer use a familiar to pull a plough share. Gold is the universal language of Tamriel, a language in which I am illiterate.” at the end of her tirade she glanced at the Altmer expectantly.  
  
“You know full well that I am pre-occupied with important duties.”  
  
“I also know of your penchant for inviting yourself to important experiments.” she emphasized the finality of her argument with a hand to her hips.  
  
Ancano did not take the gesture kindly.“I expect to receive adequate compensation in return. I do not make a habit of tending to the whims of troublesome Apprentices.” he warned, taking a single step forwards to intimidate the short human.  
  
He had not expected her to repeat the motion with a foolish flourish. So when she lay her spare hand upon his arm, pulled his looming figure towards her and raised herself on the tips of her toes, he instinctively lowered himself to meet her disobedient gaze.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” the question, accentuated by the heavy rise and fall of his chest, sent puffs of his spiced breath over her face.  
  
“Am I not owed for ridding the College of those dastardly rumours?” she asked, but the roaring intensity of the outrage behind his amber eyes warned the Breton not to push her luck any further.  
  
“Very well.” she sighed in defeat, relinquishing her hold on his studded gloves as swift as if her flesh had been seared by the flames of dragon fire.  
  
'I suspected that this would be a mistake' the Breton lamented, exiting the Hall of the Elements with a vow to avoid all physical contact during her next meeting with the dour Advisor.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sputter._

_Wheeze._

_Pop._

“Pitiful.”

On cue, the small vortex of magical energy burst in the palm of her hand with a listless groan. As if the endless barrage of criticism from her reluctant tutor had not been enough, now the Breton's own magic saw fit to mock her.

“Perhaps I would not be so 'pitiful' if I was adequately rested?” from beneath drooping lids, weary irises observed the last weak remnants of conjuration magic erode and scatter into the wind. In the same moment, the bubbling irritation welling within her fettered to a simmer, all of her stubborn will expelled in one defeated exhalation.

Only under pain of death or Nord cuisine – with the former barely dissimilar to the latter – would the Breton loathefully admit to having developed a certain affection for conversing with the Advisor. Dreadful as the initial prospect of talking to Ancano was, somewhere along the way the trading of sarcastic insults and haughty dismissal had morphed into something which was not entirely unenjoyable. Figuratively dragging her from her quarters in the early hours of the morning, however, was.

It seemed an impossible task to tear her gaze away from the Hall of Attainment, nevermind conjure a frost atronach. All the Breton desired was the comforting embrace of her quilt for one leisurely afternoon, just one to fully erase the exhaustion of yesterday's battle against a particularly vicious sabre cat and the two ice wraiths which had been drawn into the fray.

Wounds and mottled bruises had healed under the comforting glow of restoration magic, but the consequences of combat still lay embedded in the tense muscles underneath her skin. The weighty burden of lifting a single arm so strong that could she not touch the delicate flesh herself, she would be tricked into believing the limb had been cast in iron.

“I have many important duties to attend, instead I am here. I have no intention of allowing you to waste my time.” the ferocity of the sneer he wore spoke volumes; the Altmer was neither happy to be there, nor to catch the Breton's eyes unabashedly lingering elsewhere.

'I simply must know if your current expression is borne from years of experience or whether you revel in the image of yourself in the mirror to such an extent that you have managed to perfect it?' the lulling flood of her depleted magicka pool allowed a hazy fog of exhaustion to addle her mind, enough to perplex the Breton when she realised that she had failed to voice her question aloud.

Worn, weary, and withered, all these attributes be damned if they break the dynamic between them, she decided as she pushed the cries of her overworked body to the back of her mind. She focused all of her attention on the displeased Altmer, standing firm despite the obvious height difference between them. She began to tremble, or so she thought, she could scarce spare a glance downwards, so intent on overcoming the magnitude of his stature to look down on him, even as he loomed above her...

...but she could not keep this up forever...

She wobbled, slumping into a posture befitting a drunkard in one of Skyrim's many taverns, with a blooming flush across her cheeks to match.

Adding further insult to injury, Ancano flicked his wrist with practised precision, summoning the icy construct with ease and dismissing it just as easily.

“You will master this spell.” his tone was clipped, an order rather than words of encouragement.

It was hardly surprising to see why Ancano himself had not pursued a more commonplace career as a tutor in the Summerset Isles. Terrifying the life out of poor Apprentices – or trying to, in this instance – is a highly unusual and presumably ineffective teaching method. With this thought, laughter threatened to spill free from her throat in one final act which would shatter her carefully crafted porcelain veneer of grandeur. So she swallowed it back, but the cracked surface of the mask she hid behind had already begun to reveal the farmer's daughter beneath.

“Such confidence in my abilities, how unexpected.” Either the Advisor intentionally ignored the drained, inanimate tone of her voice, or he had yet to notice the obvious signs of her exhaustion. If the Breton had to chance a guess, she would choose the former.

Nevertheless, the Breton was determined to rise to the challenge, if only in the hope of returning to her quarters. She channelled what little magical energy remained within her to form a swirling whirlpool of amethyst, which she hastily threw towards the ground. A mistake, she discovered, after the initial 'crack' of success and the swell of elation in her chest had been tempered by the impact of a force violent enough to send shockwaves running through the ground.

“Oof!” she cried in surprise, her weakened legs crumpling beneath her, the weight of the impact tossing both herself and Ancano in opposite directions.

The deep blanket of fallen snow cushioned her tumble. Thick flakes of frost tangled themselves in her eyelashes, melting under the warmth of her skin until her vision blurred and they flowed down her cheeks like tears.

“Move, Breton!” the bark registered before the bleary movement in the corner of her vision.

She struggled, fruitlessly scrambling to break free from the forceful grip of the icy fingers ensnaring her being.

A current of panic surged along her spine, instinctively coaxing hopeless puffs of tiny flames from her fingers, so small that the cooling cinders from a hearth would burn brighter.

'Move, move, move!' she repeated the phrase again and again in her mind, as if the determination in the words alone would will her body to move, but further it sank into the snow.

Fear ate away at her, tightening and tightening, pulling and pulling at the walls of her chest until she could feel nothing but the knot of terror constricting her throat and the rush of adrenaline pulsing in her veins.

The familiar sound of a metallic crash rumbled in the distance, followed by an almighty flash of light, blinding even behind tightly sealed eyelids.

Still the Breton braced herself for the impact, the turn of events so instantaneous and unexpected that she could not process the situation until warily she peeked from beneath damp lashes. Whether from melted snowflakes or tears of her own, she did not know.

'Sweet Mara, please preserve my dignity.' she prayed as she looked towards the sky, releasing a single, shaky breath. 

The Breton hesitantly flitted her gaze over the floor to find a pair of intricately detailed boots, travelling upwards to take in the spiked detailing of his gloves and the belt tailored around his lithe waist. She faltered at his shoulders, a stone of uncertainty settling into her stomach with the realisation that she would have to face the Advisor in her current state.

Unkempt hair, tired eyes, slumped in a puddle of slush, she was sure to be a picture...it seemed laughter would not be the gesture to break her tarnished mask after all.

The 'crunch' of footsteps caught her attention, but The Breton pointedly averted her eyes to stare at a fascinating patch of snow, or so she would claim. 

'Oh...blast.' she cursed as the footsteps grew louder.

No matter how much the Breton tried to coolly brace herself for his reaction, she found her eyes snapped shut to avoid it.

This made the sudden shift in gravity all the more surprising, enough for the Breton's eyes to quickly open and take in her surroundings.

'What in Oblivion?” she questioned, furrowing her brow at the darkness encasing her vision, until the sight of a pointed golden clasp came into view.

Only then did her senses heighten to notice the warm, sturdy support encasing her body in a firm hold and channelling restoration magic throughout the small of her back. Eyes once widened in surprise now sagged, half-lidded under the soothing ministrations of the magic...or was it the heady scent of spices, soap and straw drawing the tension from her body? 

'Well, that lasted quite a while' the sarcastic voice inside of her commented, reminiscing on her pledge to avoid physical contact with Ancano. The Breton paid the voice no heed, after all, the Advisor had initiated and surely after such a day she should allow herself to indulge in a moment of comfort? Even if it was in the arms of the enemy...or rival...or whatever they were to one another.

A passing thought crossed her mind to chance a glimpse of the elf's sharp profile, but her head remained resolutely plastered to his chest, even when her heart skipped a beat upon entering the Hall of Attainment.

The hall was quiet, how the other members of the College had yet to wake from their slumber with all of the previous commotion, was beyond the Breton's comprehension.

Ancano settled the Breton down onto her bed, dropping her with haste. 

“...Ah” the sound dropped from her lips before she could stop it, but no other words passed between them. A glance conveyed just as many words, and was the only interaction spared before the Altmer abruptly turned to exit her quarters.

He paused in the archway, a familiar but mirrored image which raised the Breton's eyebrows. “We will recommence tomorrow.” he informed her, the only words he spoke before he departed.

To some the Altmer's flighty disappearance would appear to be a callous lack of compassion, but to the Breton's lips it brought a smile. A smile to be hidden behind her pillow, but a smile nonetheless.

For an elf whose lips dripped venom whenever they parted, a silent reprieve was perhaps one of the greatest kindnesses he could offer. Second only to putting aside his superiority complex in order to carry her – a lowly human – to her lodgings.

Perhaps something in the dynamic they shared had shifted in a more positive direction, or maybe she was just experiencing a rare moment of optimism. She would discover which tomorrow, she supposed, as she finally drifted off into a well-deserved rest.


	6. Chapter 6

The Breton slung her legs from the bed, admiring the renewed energy in the limbs... at least until the impact with the chilled stone floor stung the tips of her toes and she withdrew with a hiss.

“Huh, I've ever seen you sleep this late before.” an intrigued voice called from the entrance to her quarters.

She stiffened, turning towards the unexpected visitor in spite of the tension riddling her posture, which was enough to rival the unruly and tangled mop of hair surrounding her head.

“Onmund, to what do I owe the pleasure?” she inquired casually, feigning indifference to her haggard appearance behind a lethargic yawn.

“We were concerned, it isn't often we see you sleep past midday, never-mind two days.” Brelyna appeared behind Onmund, mirroring the look of care and concern etched into her companion's features.

“Forgive me, for there must still be a piece of bread stuffed into my ears to block out your snoring, Onmund.” the Breton masked her disbelieving smile behind a cupped hand, both it and her grin faltering with the confirmation that she had indeed slept until Loredas eve, after the incident on Fredas morn.

“Mara's mercy.” she muttered under her breath.

Just when her relationship with the advisor had begun to improve...

Still, her colleagues had reasonable cause for concern, she realised, plucking at her robes with a grimace, the unpleasant fragrance of damp wafting into her nostrils.

“Such worry is unnecessary, see? I am in one piece.” at least, at the moment she was. The Breton wouldn't be surprised to receive a firebolt to the face later, after all, who knew how Ancano would react to friendly advances?

Calmly rising from her bed, she shooed the pair from the hall, their protests falling onto deaf ears.

She attended to her personal hygiene with great haste, throwing a shocked Enthir off-balance in the process of tossing on a casual outfit from her wardrobe. There was little point in equipping fresh robes but should the opportunity arise, the Breton wrenched open the topmost drawer of her simple bedside cabinet in search of her silver amethyst ring of conjuration. Looting draugr infested crypts was most lucrative.

She dove a hand into the mass of disorganised papers, smearing one of many hastily drawn caricatures under the pressure of grasping fingertips and carelessly crumpling the surface of plans long forgotten.  
A distorted figure gazed up towards her, a mass of smudged edges and exaggerated points. A creature of such ghastly countenance that even a goblin would struggle to set their eyes upon it.  
Glimmering silver grabbed her attention and she swooped, inadvertently ripping the parchment, which she then haphazardly stuffed into the drawer once more.

The cool band of silver slipped over her knuckle, a polished sheen returning to the inside of the metal with each absent-minded twist of the two fingers which held it.

She strode towards Ancano's quarters, one anti-clockwise turn of her ring, the only visible sign of apprehension in an otherwise unshakable resolve.

\---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

“You are awake, I see.” a simple statement of fact which left few clues for the Breton to decipher his mood.

“I appear to have the tendency to oversleep without the intervention of my very own Altmer waking call. ” her arms spread to the side in a light-hearted gesture and she saddled up beside his chair.

'...My?' she questioned, the inner corners of her eyebrows twitching.

At which point had she begun to use possessive pronouns towards Ancano? Or more importantly, why?

'A slip of the tongue' she reasoned, lightly shaking her head.

“I am not responsible for overseeing your sleeping habits.” he drawled, focus indomitably directed towards the quill in his grasp, scribbling a curved and sprawling signature along a yellowing piece of parchment.

“A pity.” she eyed the silver goblet to his left. “Your presence possesses a remarkably... sobering quality, like that of iced water. It is quite the effective way to wake up in the morning.”

Testing the limits of the Ancano's grace was foolish and hardly justifiable considering the circumstances, however all cautiousness and rationale she exhibited in the presence of her peers ceased to exist when in the Advisor's vicinity.

So the Breton stretched an arm outwards, clasping the uncorked, emerald bottle of wine which rested on the table. Leveraging herself with the other, she impassively splayed her fingers over the smooth skin of his wrist, laid across the edge of his letter.

The Advisor wordlessly allowed her to remove the bottle from the table, without protest as he had done with the book she now kept ever by her bedside.

He shuffled.

Generations-old wood creaked under the strain of his movement and in an instant the Breton found her concentration drawn from curved glass to engrossed in the motions of his fingers, engaged in yet another exhibition of remarkable penmanship.

The lithe appendages coiled, increasing and decreasing the rhythm with which the quill pulled against the paper, leaving nary a smear or blot of ink in their wake.  
'No, no, no, no, no.' her mind repeated, incapable of forming a more eloquent sentence.

This was not the positive direction she intended for their relationship to take.

There was a level of certainty in hatred, even friendship, but attraction? Attraction is as volatile as a tired mage attempting to summon a frost atronach.

A firmer 'No.' from her mind was all she needed to forcefully tear her eyes away and throw the bottle of liquor to her lips.

The alcohol scorched a trail of liquid fire down her throat and at once she raised a hand to pat her chest, holding back a cough.

Ancano cast her a sidelong glance, gauging her actions with interest.

She pretended she didn't notice, smacking her lips together and wrinkling the bridge of her nose as the saccharine after-taste of grapes met with mild spices to dance along her tongue.

“A fine wine such as this would prove a better accompaniment to a room with a view, don't you agree?” she asked, but in truth she was no connoisseur of alcoholic drinks.

A chilled jug of fresh milk was to be the Breton's usual beverage of choice – a milk drinker in the purest sense – the Breton found that the chances of waking to find herself abducted by members of the Dark Brotherhood were far lower that way.

“Am I to assume that straw is something you find pleasing to the eye?” she asked, eyeing the pile which lay stagnant against the wall, unmoved since her last visit to the Advisor's abode.

He did not respond, presumably brushing away what he thought was a ridiculous notion.

He deposited his quill back into the stained ink pot beside him, moving it from the Breton's reach, who had pulled herself into a seated position atop the table and leaned back on the palms of her hands to observe him.

The candle between them flickered, the closeness of the burning flame dangerously close to licking her skin. She paid it no mind, but still Ancano pushed the candleholder to the side, a string of molten wax dripping over his fingers.

She reached out instinctively, a momentary burst of restoration magic surging from her body to soothe the reddening of his golden skin.

“Alto Wine is one of few pleasures available in this wretch of a city.” the dulcet timbre of his voice begged more questions than she dared ask.

The bottle of wine thudded against the table, released from her grip for fear of the reflection she would see therein. Would her cheeks be aflame? Her eyes a mirror image of Nirya's lustful gaze towards the Advisor?

Some questions are better left unanswered, even among scholars.

“Are you acquainted with Ondolemar, perchance?” she asked with a small, forced grin.

The Advisor settled a slender hand beneath his chin.“I am aware of his position as a high-ranking member of the Thalmor, although I have not yet had the opportunity to meet with him personally.” he ended the statement with the questioning arch of a single eyebrow.

“There are so few pleasures in life as fine as your company” she mimicked, catching Ancano's eye with a mirthful glance. If she had cared to look closer, she may have noticed the raging storm of primeval elements swelling behind his amber orbs. “The resemblance was quite uncanny.”

Putting aside Ondolemar's obvious flaws – like his positively shocking distaste for canines – Markarth's Justiciar was perhaps the most open-minded member of the Thalmor she had encountered in all of Skyrim.

Yet she chose to spend her days – and nights - in the company of the most unpleasant. Baffling.

“Yes, well, my superior and I are both obligated to maintain a certain level of...civility, with Skyrim's population.” The Advisor's thin lips were set into a hard line but in spite of his harsh expression, the words brought a shiver to the Breton's spine.

'No.' her mind warned once more, forcing the Breton to bite her tongue, just gently enough to distract from the undue innuendo she attached to such innocent words.

The alcohol had begun to play tricks on her mind, of that she was certain.

“You are but a beacon of warmth.” she responded sarcastically, twisting one ankle over the other and smoothing a hand over the creases of fabric across her shapely hips.

“You are a test in patience.” he retorted, sharpened nails scratching half-moon patterns into polished wood.

“Do I detect a hint of contempt?” she detected many things, but had not the courage to suggest anything other.

“Very astute. It is fortunate that you possess other...skills-” the cautious graze of his irises against the exposed skin of her décolletage was unmissable. “-to compensate for the incompetent level of your spell-casting.”

“My my, someone is in a prickly mood this evening. Surely you would cease my tutelage if you thought me so incapable?” she returned the Advisor's glance with a shameless one of her own, admiring the lustrous sheen of his hair which fell around his shoulders in snowy streams.

“Perhaps you should be grateful for the opportunity.” something in his tone served to heighten the Breton's senses, her eyes searching in vain for a flash of magicka, a sign to confirm that the crackle of lightning intensifying the sensitivity of her flesh was not of her own accord.

“Come now, dear Ancano, you make it sound as if you willingly proposed and – dare I say it – encourage this arrangement.” at this point, she was unsure of which arrangement she was speaking.

They tip-toed a dangerous line, so dangerous that neither one nor the other could say with certainty when they had reached it, or even if the duality of their words was intentional or otherwise.

“What are your intentions, Breton? Are you here simply to pester me or do you intend to learn?” The Altmer's voice had lowered an octave, both a warning and an opportunity to break free from whatever spell had taken hold of them.

“You know as well as I that both are inseparable from one another” the implication of her words made clear when she locked her eyes onto his.

“Yes...of course.” for once, the elf sounded at a loss.

The Breton couldn't fathom why she hadn't grasped her chance with both hands. Perhaps it was simply the very nature of their relationship; volatile and brimming with excitement. Like a stream, the Breton felt the need to test the waters, only to plunge into the depths if she found them still.

Regardless of whether she had played coy, it was far too late to venture into the courtyard anyway, of that the Breton was certain. There were things she could yet learn from the Altmer in the confines of his quarters – another certainty of which she was aware - if only she succumbed to the wicked temptation before her, cloaked in a guise of black and gold.

She could learn to memorise the sharp angles of his cheekbones upon her fingertips, or the electrifying sensation of his slender hand as it pulled her forwards by the arm, she could even discover whether the taste of his lips matched his sour persona.

The first two she had just discovered, the latter remained a mystery.

In...

She inhaled, a shaky mouthful of the Altmer's warm breath filtering deeply into her lungs.

Out...

She exhaled, an inhalation of his own following immediately. 

Falling into a steady rhythm, she gulped down air, breath after breath until she felt as if she were drowning. It was intoxicating, more-so than the alcohol in her system, his presence alone clouded her rationality, or what little remnant of which remained.

Parched, she slipped her tongue along chapped lips, so close to the Altmer's own that the moist appendage peeked out from the side of her mouth, just enough to catch the corner of his.

That was all the elf needed to rise from his seat, the motion swift enough to throw his heavy wooden chair to the floor with a resounding clatter.

A silent gasp showed through the curvature of her lips, a momentary flash of surprise and worry passing across her face, which she miserably attempted to shield with a spread hand.

Silver against gold, amethyst against amber.

Had she overstepped her bounds?

Lithe fingers tangling themselves into the back of her hair, easing her worry as she was roughly pulled to the edge of the table.

The tension in her arm gave-way, the precious band falling to the floor. Dirtied, discarded, and entirely forgotten...

At least until reality decided to assert itself once more, a cough that was neither the Breton's nor the Altmer's sounding from the doorway, breaching the magic of the moment.

The Breton would have to re-consider her choice in deity, Mara was clearly against her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I may have rushed things a bit here but I was DYING to write some UST alongside their developing friendship. I also forgot to mention this in a previous chapter but I'm changing the canon a bit to give Ancano a desk, just because.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is quite short and doesn't have as much dialogue/development, in fact it's more like a half-chapter, I'm really sorry about that! I've been fairly busy lately but I didn't want to keep people waiting too long for an update.

“Uh...I think you dropped this.”

The Breton would have flung her head in the direction of the intruder, had her elven companion not taken it upon himself to throw her from his desk instead.

On unsteady legs she tittered, thrust into a battle of wills with gravity. So fierce was her struggle, the Breton's fretful mind subconsciously willed itself to disassociate from her current predicament.

New-found attraction, followed by a near kiss with the advisor? Their discovery and the doubtlessly sordid rumours to follow? A sharp impact with the scuffed stone floor seemed almost preferable. In fact, the Breton had half-a-mind to forget present company and allow herself to be swallowed up by the grey slabs...almost, but not quite.

Speaking with fellow apprentices when smeared in the remains of greedily devoured sweetrolls was one thing, but to be ousted in the midst of a...love affair – if it could be called such - with a xenophobic elf? With filthy stalks of straw protruding from her hair, no less? No, certainly not.

The Breton had seen enough of the accursed substance in her motherland. Day-in, day-out, she would clear the muck from cattle pen, to pig pen, and beyond, heaping up brand new piles of straw in her wake.

Pile, upon pile, upon pile of fresh straw.

The straw littering the Altmer's quarters wasn't even fresh.

A set of lithe fingers splayed themselves along the base of her spine, but a second earlier than the Breton's movements, who had recovered her balance by pushing her arm against the wall.

The fingers curled, tweaking the fabric of her garments between a sturdy grip, as if the Breton should crumble to the floor at any moment without their generously offered support.

The unconscious tremble in her muscles was proof of their assumptions.

“Oh! So I did, I thank you for returning it to me.” she proclaimed, in a tone so casual that even the most perceptive of individuals could be convinced that the events of the last few seconds were entirely innocent.

To the onlooker, the situation would appear to be nothing more than a heated argument...an argument of such intensity that the Altmer Advisor had felt it necessary to stare his opponent square in the face...the proximity merely an intimidation tactic...

...On second thought, no. Not even her pile of plans for the Advisor's usurpation – which had suddenly returned to memory – could save her now.

The Breton raised an unsteady hand over her stomach, the heat once coiled within replaced with a nauseous churn. She reached out towards the visitor with the other, quickly plucking the silver ring and stuffing it into the pocket of her ensemble.

'Lucrative.' her own words, she recalled, seething at the remembrance. Objects uncovered in the depths of abandoned ruins, and pried from the hands of Skyrim's damned, shambling husks was bound to bring nothing but misfortune.

“Is there anything more you need?” Ancano's amber eyes bore into brown, a stern order of dismissal, completely contrary to the polite words he spoke.

The Advisor's hand lifted from her back, an action which only exacerbated the chill pulsing along the Breton's skin. She covered her neck with a palm, but it was not the tiny cracks in the stonework of the drafty halls which were to be held responsible for her feelings of exposure.

“Well, now that you mention it...”

The Breton's brow crinkled. Up until this moment, she had believed herself to be the only one fool-hardy enough to intentionally ignite the Altmer's temperament. If that was not the visitor's objective, then he was greatly over-estimating Ancano's generosity.

'Perhaps it is in the nature of the vertically challenged races to make up for in gall, what we lack in height.' the Breton mused, lips set into a straight line. The notion seemed humourless under the current circumstances.

She looked up, grateful for the Altmer's presence in diverting attention away from her as she stole a glance at the unwanted guest.

The shady Bosmer was not one to pass up an opportunity for his own benefit, no matter the cost to others. Three scattered mounds of vampiric ash in some gloomy swamp outside of Morthal, and the amulet loosely hung around Onmund's neck had proved that.

'You fool' the Breton berated herself.

She knew of the Bosmer's presence inside of the Hall of Attainment, she had even knocked the very elf from his feet with a surprise slip of her skin when changing. Her modesty was an afterthought, so consumed with concern for Ancano's perception of her, she had thought to ignore the Bosmer's presence entirely. 

She should have known better.

“Perhaps you misunderstood.” Ancano crossed one arm over the other, sparing his Bosmer associate nothing more than a cool glance down the bridge of his nose. “Return to your quarters. We are done here.” the stillness of the atmosphere did not break, the air did not alight with bursts of sparks, nor frost or flame, but the threat was just as clear.

On any other occasion, the Altmer made no show of his authority towards the other members of the College, remaining the ever-impartial Advisor. The occasional display of stature or strength, he reserved only for the Breton to temper – or blatantly ignore – but the Bosmer was afforded no such luxury. 

Enthir stood back, lifting up his hands in a plea of supplication.

“A word to the wise, you might want to be more discreet. Take it from someone who has...experience in keeping items of questionable interest hidden from prying eyes.”

With that Enthir left.

'Back to smuggling more illegal goods into the College, no-doubt.' The Breton thought to herself. She could only hope that the Bosmer would not find a more profitable avenue of income in the trading of secrets.


	8. Chapter 8

“Well, that was...” the Breton began, uncertain of how to breach the uneasy silence.

Frightful? Exhilarating? Unexpected? All three could accurately summarise a single ingredient in the volatile concoction of emotions brewing within the crevices of her mind, but one word alone was insufficient.

“A misunderstanding, I assure you.” the Altmer's unspoken dismissal was infinitely more merciful than the empty distance he had suddenly placed between them.

The camaraderie they shared, hung as fragile as the delicate snowflakes which decorated the alcoves of the College. Frozen bonds severed with each fallen droplet, drawn by the searing rays of morning light.

“Misunderstanding?” the word strung from her an outraged chord. “There was very little to misunderstand, surely?” she asked with a sour grimace overtaking her lips, on which the Altmer – conscious or not - focused his attention.

The Breton shared the Altmer's obliviousness for the unexpected turn of events, but that knowledge could do little to cushion the sharp stab of pain, which, prompted by his silence, ripped a course through her chest.

“Oh but I am wounded.” a heart-felt admission, posed under the guide of a snide remark. “I must insist we discuss this, however much I would love to retire from your company.”

The Breton made a move to step towards him, but the Altmer recoiled, unwilling to bridge the gap between them, it seemed.

“I have nothing further to discuss with you.”

“We simply must discuss this...” she hesitated, savouring a heavy inhalation of calming air before continuing. “...whatever this may be.” for all of her self-taught eloquence, she knew of no word – or combination thereof - in her vocabulary to correctly define her relationship with the Advisor.

The Breton waved her hand in thoughtless patterns amidst the air, a gesture meant to be perceived as an indication of calm, but erratic movements betrayed her.

“This matter is...inappropriate. I'm afraid I must ask you to put an end to this line of questioning, at once.” the Altmer scoffed with indignation, reaching for the goblet of wine to his left. He so sorely needed the beverage to deal with the small woman even under the most unassuming of circumstances, never-mind the situation at present.

Stray droplets of wine fell from the silver rim of the goblet, captured by a flick of the Altmer's tongue along his lips. The motion set the Breton's heart aflutter, memories of the sweet flavour flooding her mind, whereas the taste on her tongue lingered, dulled, becoming stale and noxious.

She swallowed.

Sooner would she assist Arniel in one of his suspicious experiments than acknowledge the Altmer's hold, locked around something far more precious than a mere wine bottle.

“Far be it for me to behave in an inappropriate manner around one such as you, whatever was I thinking?” disbelieving eyes rolled in a facetious display.

“Do remember to whom you are speaking.” the empty goblet collided harshly with the surface of the table, enough to scuff the polished wooden surface, and for a reverberating clang to shudder throughout the hollowed metal.

Ancano raised a hand towards his face, fingers poised towards the bridge of his nose, but the limb dropped before flesh met flesh.

The Breton raised an eyebrow at the display, scanning the Advisor from head to toe; “My, I see your inner Thalmor has re-emerged, what a charming surprise.”

The Advisor was in the midst of retrieving his chair, but the statement caused him to pause. He set the feet of the chair down against the floor, the wood gently tapping against the stone.

“I know where my allegiances lie, Breton.” Ancano settled himself into his chair once more, the vision of calm. A blunt contrast to his earlier, and uncharacteristic display of emotion.

“One would be hard-pressed to forget, after all, your entire wardrobe is a testament to your misguided loyalty.” she was back to insulting his attire, good times.

“The Dominion seeks only to create a better world, in time I believe that will become clear.”

“Yet you possess a superiority complex as vast as the Throat of the World, however do you expect to earn the respect of those you lord over?”

A loathsome sneer was the Altmer's response, the tips of sharp canines exposed, between the gaps of curled lips.

The image was starkly reminiscent of the Breton's early days at the College...and suddenly all of the pieces fell into place.

“How could I forget? You are a creature of pride.” fingers threaded themselves throughout her hair, rubbing at her scalp, as if the gesture would somehow dispel the mounting pressure in her cranium.

“I am a superior Mer.” Ancano phrased the statement as if it were the most obvious thing in all of Tamriel. “Unlike your kind, Breton, I have due cause for pride.”

“Do tell me how beneficial your pride is, when it causes you fear.” she watched the curve of his nails - poised casually atop his cheeks – bite curved indentations into supple skin.

“Fear?” the word rolled from his tongue with intrigued inflection. Of course, fear would be a foreign concept to a member of the Thalmor, to whom all – even Titus Mede II himself – would bend the knee.

“You fear yet more rumours should find their way around the College. Honestly, I can't blame you, fraternising with an Apprentice would be quite scandalous, don't you agree?” she asked the question with wide-eyes, wearing a mock expression of surprise.

“Hold your tongue.” the Advisor hissed the warning through tightly pursed lips.

“I simply wished to know why a slap on the wrist from Mirabelle would frighten you so.   
To think, an Altmer and self-proclaimed expert of magic would cower at the feet of a Breton woman.” her palm, laid flat across her grin, was the singular force keeping the Altmer's fury at bay. 

“Preposterous.” he eyed the fingertips of the Breton's other hand, which had came to rest upon the arm of his seat. “I can assure you that your superior and I are of the same mind; we wish only for the people of Skyrim to abandon their resentment of magic. Any personal dealings here are to remain private and are free from consequence.” if the Breton didn't know any better, she would say the elf made the statement by way of self-assurance.

“Then perhaps it is your own internal struggle which brings you shame.” in spite of her mind's vicious protests, her hand insisted on reaching out to playfully cup the Altmer's angular jaw.

The desire to close the gap between them was highly tempting, but for the moment, the Breton forced herself to remain a respectable distance;“It must be so hard to cope with the knowledge that a superior Mer such as yourself, willingly consorts with a lowly Breton, like yours truly.”

“You may be aware of your own shortcomings, but do not presume to know of mine. I am quite capable of dealing with your kind.” Ancano encased the Breton's palm in a steely grip, lifting the offending appendage from his person...

...but he didn't release her. 

“How surprising” a glimmer of amusement flickered in the Breton's eyes. “I believed such relationships were frowned upon in the Dominion. There may be hope for us after all.”

“It would be wise for you to consider a more...” for a split second, he hesitated. “appropriate choice of words.”

Taking advantage of the Altmer's momentary lapse in concentration, the Breton pulled her hand from his grip, moving both to his face once more. The sharp edges of defined cheekbones dug into the palms of her hands, the pads of her thumbs lightly tickling against his jaw.

“I assume you are referring to 'us'? But dear Ancano! We were getting along so well.”

The Advisor's head jolted to the right, forcing her hands along with it, but they did not move from his skin.

“Cease, immediately.” he ordered, so abrupt and with such fierceness, the Breton instantaneously halted her advances.

To taunt and to tease was one thing, but to blithely and callously ignore the Altmer's consent, was another thing entirely.

The Breton broke away from the Altmer, raising herself to full-height once again.“Do you fear Enthir will swoop down upon you? That Mirabelle should blast you with an ice spike back to the Summerset Isles?” she asked in jest, but the sutures of hope upon of her heart were torn, re-opening the wound from moments prior, until the pain she had felt returned with a vengeance.

“Enough of this nonsense” he jeered. 

Incapable of perceiving her inward strife, he interpreted her words as yet another mockery...or so the dejected Breton believed, until the earth spun beneath her and warmth encased the curve of her hips.

Rounded thighs fell at the sides of the seated Altmer's lap, melding around the toned legs upon which she rested. The fabric of ornate robes hitched under the Breton's jolted movements, sure to wrinkle from the careless contact.

Had they learned nothing?

A lesson in haste, perhaps.

Overcoming her temporary daze, the Breton swooped, each rounded curve of her form – be it subtle or full - pushed against that of the elf's slim build. Chests collided, pulling an unconscious hitch in the Altmer's breath. A perfect opportunity which the Breton seized to capture the slightly parted, golden lips which enticed her so.

The kiss was off-centre, jarring, if not for the thumb and forefinger which cupped her chin, tugged her distinctly human face to the side, and pulled her into perfect alignment.

It was chaste. A quick peck to the lips and nothing more.

Two minds, undoubtedly awash with a cacophony of emotions, and neither knew how to continue.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been swamped lately and suffering writer's block, so I don't think this is up to my usual standard, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless!

It had been a mistake to retire to her quarters, leaving Ancano without so much as a peck goodbye, but perhaps it was an even greater mistake to intentionally avoid the Advisor in the coming weeks.

The Breton did not take to scurrying behind bookshelves, nor cowering under tables or other manner of childish gesture, but the woman avoided the Advisor nonetheless. Any attempt at contact he made, she effectively thwarted;

“Oh I'm terribly sorry, I'm a bit busy right now.” She'd say.

“Sergius requires my assistance.” She'd justify.

Holing herself up in the Frozen Hearth had seemed like a logical solution to her troubles; not once had the Breton witnessed the Altmer entering the Frozen Hearth, or even leave the College grounds for that matter. The Breton supposed she shouldn't be too surprised if he did appear though, Ancano seemed to have perfected the art of appearing in the most unlikely of places and at the most inopportune moment.

Two whole weeks had passed since the kiss they had shared, Ancano was certain to forget about the incident entirely...or so she hoped. Still, should the Altmer attempt to burn her to smithereens, well, at least it was an opportunity to put her brand new, enchanted gear to the test. All of that work for Sergius had managed to pay-off, particularly as she no longer had need to wear that accursed silver amethyst ring of Conjuration...she never did get to learn how to summon a frost atronach though, which was quite a shame.

“Dagur, another!” the Breton yelled, hastily mumbling a quick 'please' under her breath. Tricky as the situation may be, 'under no circumstance should a Breton forget common courtesy', or so her father would say.

“I think you've had quite enough...” the Nord quivered, his hesitation was obvious. The last thing the poor barkeep needed was another Ranmir on his hands.

“Nonsense Dagur, another, please!” the Breton was insistent, fishing a handful of dull coins from within her small apothecary satchel, to drop them in front of the exasperated barkeep.

Onmund – one of three Apprentices who had accompanied the Breton to the establishment - gave his fellow Nord a quick nod, confirming that should the Breton get up to any mischief, Onmund would allow himself to be held responsible for her recklessness.

Dagur dropped the old rag he had been using to polish a shoddy iron cup, reaching behind him and plucking yet another sweetroll from the stores of food he kept stock-piled, on account of Winterhold's unpredictable and harsh environmental conditions.

The Breton tore a large piece from the sweet treat, savouring the excessively sweet flavour of the syrupy icing and heavy sponge which filled her cheeks. So engorged were they, the Breton looked the spitting image of a ravenous skeever during feeding time.

“You sure do like sweetrolls.” Onmund observed, downing the last droplets of Nord mead in his tankard.

“Do you dislike sweetrolls, Onmund?” the Breton asked with a raised brow, sweeping away a few stray crumbs from their table.

The very thought was inconceivable, the only individual in the whole of Skyrim who could possibly dislike sweetrolls was Ancano...

The Breton stuffed another piece of the confection into her mouth, effectively silencing herself in both a literal and figurative sense. There was no need to ruin such a sweet treat with unpalatable thoughts.

“...I don't eat them much these days.”

the Breton's eyes flickered, so consumed with her gluttony, she had only caught the ending of the Nord's sentence.

“J'zargo could manage twice as many sweetrolls. J'zargo would challenge you to a contest.”

'Praise be to Mara' the Breton thought to herself, grateful her preoccupation had gone unnoticed.

“Challenge accepted.” she accepted the challenge without hesitation. After all, the Breton would seize any opportunity to excessively indulge her sweet tooth, but alas, Brelyna had other ideas...

“I don't think that's a good idea, who knows how many the pair of you could eat...” the Dunmer was ever the voice of reason, but a voice which the competitive Khajiit and prideful Breton would be more than happy to ignore.

Under different circumstances, the Breton may have found solace in Brelyna's caring nature, relied upon her for advice with regards to her predicament. Unfortunately, the delicate nature of the situation called for privacy...and the Breton didn't imagine the Dunmer woman would be pleased to discuss the personal life of one she thought to hold murderous intentions.

“J'zargo will be fine” their feline companion reassured, sending a sly glance towards the Breton, “but J'zargo cannot say the same of our friend here.”

The Breton held back a snort, “I beg your pardon? You sully my honour, good Sir.” she laid a hand across her chest in an exaggerated gesture of affront, emptying all but her last few septims onto the bar.

Dagur saw no opportunity for refusal, the economic climate of Winterhold so dire that the Nord had no other option but to begrudgingly hand the pair of Apprentices a semi-depleted plate of sweetrolls.

The door to the Frozen Hearth opened, a chill settling into the room, causing the fire to flicker uncontrollably. The Breton hardly had time to dislodge the last piece of her third sweetroll from between her sticky fingers, never-mind resume J'zargo's challenge. Before the spongy delicacy could even touch her tongue, the newcomer sidled up beside the Breton, a few flakes of snow falling from their person and onto her lap.

“If I could have a moment of your time.” they said, what should have been a question expressed as a statement, eliminating all possibility to decline.

“Of cou-” the Breton began, shooting an abrupt glance towards the small figure which had took residence beside her.

She did a double-take...

...and another, just to be on the safe side.

It was then that Breton discovered her mistake in dwelling there that late afternoon. She forced herself to hold back a sigh, looking towards the door and hoping for some small chance of escape.

The opportunity did not arise, if anything, the elf deliberately situated himself between the Breton and the exit, an unfortunate sign that the woman had little choice but to remain seated and await the elf's request.

“Of course, Enthir, how nice to see you.” hardly a convincing pleasantry, but the greetings from the other members of the College made-up for the Breton's lack of enthusiasm.

“You're one who can get things done around here.” the Bosmer said in a hushed tone, quick to cut to the chase, as if sensing the Breton's desire to leave his presence.

“Speak for yourself.” with wary eyes the Breton surveyed the reactions of her companions, assured of their ignorance, she continued, “Is there something you wish of me?” she asked, wiping her fingers on a spare piece of cloth.

She pushed the plate of sweetrolls further in J'zargo's direction. Her raging appetite was no longer, but she now knew who to consult, should she ever again find herself indulging in one too many delicacies. 

“I don't mean to pry but...” ever so subtly, the Breton's eyes rolled, “I have been known to have certain contacts, I'll see what I can do to make sure nobody in the College finds out about this little secret of yours... for the right price, of course.”

“The right price? Oh, but you are generous.” reflexively, the Breton reached for the satchel around her waist, the twinkling sound of coins jangling within barely audible over the off-tune rendition of 'Ragnar the Red' which the pub's rowdy patrons merrily sung.

“You're not very good at this, are you?” the Bosmer had asked the same thing when the Breton had sought to retrieve Onmund's amulet. His implication was evidently clear; blackmail, although for what goal, the Breton could not say for certain.

“Nor are you, it is rather unwise to provoke a being so dangerous, is it not?” she did not speak of herself, but rather of the 6ft-something ball of elven fury which had just entered the Frozen Hearth.

“Are you and your associates quite finished?” an all-too-familiar voice piped in from the sidelines, wholly unamused with the unabashed stares of belligerent – and ever so tipsy - Nords aimed in his direction.

The Altmer had grown impatient, tired of the Breton's avoidance, that much was clear. He had to be, in order to make his presence known to the locals, a group which did not look kindly upon mages, elves or organizations devoted to rooting out Talos worship – of which the Altmer belonged to all three.

'Typical...' the Breton thought, subconsciously turning in the direction of the Advisor, though her gaze remained fixed on the fidgety Bosmer.

“Where are your manners, Ancano?” she asked, the question eliciting more than a few gaping mouths around her, “How improper, you should wait until a conversation is over before interrupting.” the chastisement was a little too playful for the Breton's liking, but judging by the fear in the eyes of her companions, they had not noticed.

“Yes, excuse my intrusion, but there is an urgent matter I must discuss with you.”

The Breton was torn between unabashed joy at the possibility of escaping Enthir, and outright dread at the prospect of being thrown into Ancano's clutches, but in the end the latter seemed far more appealing.

\---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Howling winds drowned out the sounds of merriment emitting from the pub, the cheery glow from its windows casting light upon the snow, growing farther and farther away with each step. A particularly harsh gust of wind caught the Breton's skin, but she remained unfazed, Ancano less so, she gauged, noticing the Altmer's barely concealed wince from the corner of her eye.

The Advisor said nothing until they were safely tucked away in his quarters once more. The Breton could likely recite each little nuance of the room from memory, due to her many – and often unwelcome – visitations.

“Surely you did not drag me here to admire the scenery?” she asked cheerily, a sudden stiffness – a tension – pulling at her limbs with the sly swipe of his eyes across her body.

In one smooth motion, the Breton found her back pressed up against the cool stone wall, a sharp rip and the familiar crackle of magic ringing within her ears. Her fingernails scraped against the rock, scrabbling for leverage in a moment of temporary disorientation, a twinge of worry sparkling in her eyes.

Not from fear of the Altmer's mood – although such a thing would be more logical – no, if dropped from her current height, who knows the damage it would cause? The Breton had certainly managed to survive much greater drops when traipsing in the mountains, impatiently and stubbornly searching for alternatives to the appropriate path, but the impact of the fall was still terribly painful.

There was no cause for concern, however, Ancano had no intention of dropping her, quite the contrary, as the slim hips slotted between her spread thighs proved. The Breton was firmly locked in place.

She stole a glance downwards, taking in the picture of jagged fabric, torn at one edge, clinging in layers around her curved thighs. An iron fist, curled into a shaking claw, lay entrapped in the ruined garment, while another, gentler hand protectively cupped the joint between her face and neck.

“There is an urgent matter I must discuss with you.” the Breton mimicked, accurate even down to the surly expression. This was not the type of urgency she had expected.

“Yes.” a simple reply, followed by the immediate contact of his lips against hers.

As before, they acted without thought, pressing innocent pecks against the each other's skin. Ancano pulled back, a momentary quiver of uncertainty in his motions when the Breton's dazed demeanor became apparent. The Breton's thick lashes tickled the top of her cheeks, rosy lips coated in a moist sheen, quivering from the loss of contact. It was a split second before the Altmer's resistance proved futile. Another kiss he laid upon her lips, deeper and longer still, lips close enough to brush even after their movements had come to an end.

The whole situation was entirely inappropriate, but the protests yelled by the Breton's mind became nothing more than incoherent gargles the instant sharp teeth accosted the tender skin of the Breton's neck, nudging her head to the side with the apex of an angular forehead.

The contact caught her off-guard, so much so the shaky breath which escaped her mouth transformed into a lengthy groan. The deeper the incisors bit into her skin, the more her own body betrayed her.

A flash of pain burst outwards from a a forceful bite, wringing a high-pitched squeal from the Breton's lips. The sound was certain to be heard, were not for the protective barrier flickering across the archway. The sharp sting mingled with the pleasurable sensation of the Altmer's soft lips, laying a gentle kisses against her skin, riddled with toothy indentations.

“It's absurd, to think you believe-” arms sprung around his back, fingertips prodding against pointed shoulder blades, “-believe the Nords to be barbaric. Do tell me, where is your elven chivalry?”

“Ridiculous.” he said with a throaty scoff.

“You say that of everything.”

“I am under no false pretence regarding the state of Skyrim.”

“If you believe everything in Skyrim to be ridiculous then perhaps I should leave. What a pity...” Ancano made no move to stop her, and for a second the Breton felt herself tempted to meet his gaze, if only to gauge his reaction.

“Leave if you will.”

'Of course.' she thought, tightening her grip – painfully so - around his shoulders. Instinctively her legs repeated the motion of her hands, crossing over his back until her ankles laid atop one another.

If she hadn't known any better, she was certain a breathy and amused exhalation passed across his lips. The hairs on the back of her neck raised by the gentle caress of warm breath traipsing over her skin, slowly heading towards a circular ear.

“Of course, I know full well the effect of a superior Mer on your kind.” Ancano's warm breath tickled against the Breton's ear, dry lips brushing against the cartilage with each utterance. His voice was lowered, but in the silence of the room it was far from quiet. It echoed, hypnotic and haughty, Prim and proper, but beneath the guise, it concealing a much more sordid promise beneath.

“Hah” she followed the curt exclamation with an upturned face, nose pointed towards the ceiling in contempt, “Whatever gave you that impression?” she asked.

“Please...” the word felt as if it were a plea on the tip of her tongue, and not a sarcastic expression of disbelief belonging to the Altmer pinning her to the wall, “do not tell me you thought you were being subtle?”

“Alas, subtlety is hardly my strong point these days.” she responded.

A tingling sensation had spread throughout her body with each steady puff of heated air surrounding her ear. The Breton's heightened sense of sensitivity was only made worse by every accidental brush of the Advisor's chest against her own.

“How unsurprising, another skill you lack.”

A sudden idea occurred to her, “I have other skills at my disposal...” she stole a glance into honeyed amber orbs, which watcher her with such intensity, she was scarcely able to prevent the heat which pooled and coiled in the depths of her core.

Fragments of ice materialized in her grasp, soft snowflakes dropping to the floor in delicate falls. Reaching out, she tenderly brushed the tip of her index finger against the underside of the Altmer's neck. So light - almost ticklish - but to the Altmer's skin, the elemental magicka emanating from her touch felt as strong as a blizzard, raging in one of Skyrim's many frozen tundras. Golden flesh rose under the Breton's ministrations, bumps surfacing with each gentle caress.

With a slam, Ancano captured the Breton's arms above her head, “Whatever skills you may claim to possess, they are incomparable to my own.” he assured with a tight squeeze to the delicate skin of her wrists, another blatant display of power.

“Is that so?” the Breton fought down the urge to arch into the Altmer's hold “Do forgive me, dear Ancano, but I remain thoroughly unconvinced.”

A challenge; the second challenge of the day. The Breton hoped this challenge would prove far, far more entertaining than any sweetroll eating contest.


	10. Chapter 10

It would be easy to witness Ancano lay impassioned kisses upon the Breton's skin, and to then claim he had fallen for her ploy. The challenge she proposed was nothing more than a playful tactic, designed as yet another way to bait the Advisor in the unending game of cat-and-mouse they played. Which role the Breton and the Altmer fulfilled was cause for debate, but it would be inaccurate to assume that the lowering of the Altmer's knee to the floor was, in any way, a sign of his submission.

“...Ancano?” the Breton questioned when her heels touched the floor, her eyes darting across his kneeling form with dizzying speed.

Operatives of the Aldmeri Dominion were not so naïve, they would not fall for such obvious tricks, and nor were they gracious enough to relinquish their pride. In fact, beyond a hastily memorized textbook definition – which served to uphold whatever ruse he had crafted – the word 'Compliance' was one which the Breton believed Ancano to be wholly unfamiliar with.

The Breton had grown well acquainted with the Ancano throughout her months of study, enough to be aware of his overinflated sense of superiority, in any case. Something was surely amiss for the Advisor to willingly lower himself, to sully the fine garments he wore - or worse still, dirty his pride – at the feet of a Breton. It was unheard of, unfathomable, regardless of whether he seemed content to lay with one, as current circumstances seemed to imply...

“If you are in need of a vigorous stamina potion, you need only let me know. The energy you expend in maintaining your usual frightful facade must truly exhaust you.” she said jovially, attempting to dispel the wary niggle, which had begun to creep in the back of her mind.

'Perhaps it was unwise of me, to never question his age.' she thought, observing the motionless elf below her and mentally compiling a list of semi-realistic reasons for how she had successfully managed to put the old Altmer's back out, if that was the case.

Shifting her weight from leg to leg, the Breton's hips swayed, causing the Advisor's hands – which still rested upon them – to follow with each movement. Despite the difference in their positions, Ancano maintained his firm grip around her hips, trapping the Breton securely against the wall. It was a small gesture of unrelinquished control, but it succeeded in easing the Breton's concerned state of mind.

Before it was even possible for the Breton to notice that Ancano was, in fact, uninjured, a set of lithe, golden fingers coursed along the stretch of skin across her outer thigh, which was visible between the ripped edges of her clothing.

'Thank the Divines' a breathy sigh of relief escaped her, with the realisation that she would not have to confront Mirabelle, nor deal with whatever repercussions would arise from failing to rescue a hopelessly drunk Ancano from toppling into a magical font from great height...or so would have been her excuse. It was far more believable than 'I ate one too many sweetrolls and injured our loveable Advisor in a moment of heated bliss against the wall'.

From the small glimpse she dared to catch of him, he seemed to take a moment to admire her, hungrily engulfing each small imperfection of her skin as he mapped the surface of her thigh beneath his fingertips. The tenderness of his touch was surprising, but not unwelcome – definitely not unwelcome - even if he would ruin the rare moment of intimacy with some scathing remark in the future.

The Breton herself was at a loss; where should she place her own hands? The delicate strands of Ancano's hair begged for her touch, to tickle her wrists and twine around her fingers, to pull taught against the haughty elf's scalp until his head, perfectly angled backwards, made it possible to lay a teasing peck upon his lips...

...but the Breton had already taken her turn in this game.

All she could do was shudder, avert her glassy eyes towards the ceiling and try, as hard she may, to contain the way her breath stuttered through parted lips. Reactions which were all caused by warmth flooding throughout her stomach, a sensation initially due to the Altmer's heated breath, literally hitting the base of her abdomen, but the thrill which immediately followed could not be contained. Fire pulsed through her, a comfortable heat in her most intimate depths, which longed to be fanned as she awaited Ancano's next move.

His proximity was such that she felt every purse and part of his lips, each gentle brush against her stomach as he spoke, “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, I am a superior Mer, and the superiority of my skills over your own are without question. I am certain you are aware of this, however...” low and seductive, the hushed tone of his speech was enough for the deliberate pause to wrack the Breton's body with a subconscious tremble of anticipation.

The Breton licked her lips. A belligerent cough rumbled in her throat in response to the Altmer's claim. Words of protest rose on the tip of her tongue, but they were silenced by the hum of his next words.

“If you are insistent in your foolish denial, then I shall educate you with a demonstration...” he emphasized another pause with a sensual stroke from the Breton's hips to the underside of her thigh, drawing a muffled gasp from between the gaps in her lips, which were locked tightly between her teeth.

“A demonstration?” the hopeful question left her mouth in a breathier manner than was intended, “If you must, but I confess, I am doubtful of whether you will successfully convince me. You are so assured of your 'superiority', I fear you will skimp in your efforts to demonstrate your skills.” another obvious attempt to lull the Altmer into her game, but a glance downwards, into the mirthless and narrowed eyes which gazed up at her, confirmed the remark had struck a nerve.

Ancano quickly prized the Breton's left leg from the floor, tugging away her footwear to immediately deposit it to his side, only to drop her limb back into place immediately. The Breton barely had time to wince as her foot made contact with the cool stone floor, before her right leg received much the same treatment. There was a slight difference this time, however, for the Altmer firmly held the Breton's ankle, keeping her leg bent and raised in the air.

The Breton pushed herself as far back into the wall as she could, uneven slabs of stone jutting uncomfortably into her back as she swayed, attempting to steady her balance. With all of her weight resting solely on one leg, she had no choice but to trust the Altmer to keep her in place...which was a very difficult task, considering the Breton's reluctance to even run into the Advisor that day.

Perhaps it would have been wise to keep any snide comments to herself, she surmised.

The fabric of the Breton's dress draped around her thigh, which exposed much of the appendage to cool air. The contrast of the Advisor's heated hand and the breezy room caused the small hairs on her flesh to rise. Breton blood certainly granted near-immunity to the effects of the cold, but not-so-much against the lust which bubbled and boiled within depths of her person, threatening to overflow the moment Ancano saw fit to lean forward, prop the Breton's leg upon his shoulder and allow her ankle to drape over the back of his neck.

Ancano's arm melded into the curve of her back, his hand resting along the base of her spine. He twisted his neck, peppering feather-light kisses onto the inside of her thigh, inching ever upwards by the second.

Burning heat from the Breton's thighs radiated against the elf's slim jaw, but it was incomparable to the furious flush which stained her cheeks a passionate crimson.

A thin veil of cover, provided by her dress, was all that shielded the Breton from the Altmer's stare, all that could conceal the ultimate proof of her arousal from dark and hungry eyes, which shamelessly roved along the curves of her body.

“I...” any further words she might have spoke, caught in her throat and were replaced with an “ah!” of surprise.

Her cover was no longer.

She grabbed the topmost portion of her dress, which the Advisor was not able to brush to the side, and crumpled the fabric between her fingers.

The Breton's eyes were tightly closed, but that was inconsequential, for even if she glanced downwards, she supposed Ancano would be as unexpressive as ever. Not to mention, the lengthy and extravagant robes he wore would mask any visible sign of his own arousal from her view.

Although, there were some things smart choices in clothing and pure will could not disguise; puffs of air fanned against her skin in harsh bursts, whilst curved fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her thigh and twitched with impatience. 

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Ancano tentatively dragged a pair of his fingers along the Breton's sensitive womanhood. It was a teasing stroke, just light enough to be felt through the dampened strip of cloth she called lingerie.

The Breton shuddered, a motion which she longed to transform into a roll of her hips, but her currently unstable position forbade it.

Ancano lifted his eyes to peek at the Breton's expression with the utmost interest, and what he saw did not disappoint. The shallow rise and fall of her chest offered a tantalising view of her cleavage, which had become exposed by an accidental pull of her dress from her shoulder. Her same hand remained firmly clenched around her dress, but the fingers of her other rubbed against one another, forming into fists and stretching out in anxious movements. Ancano paused to watch the appendages, relishing in the way the gestures grew increasingly erratic, the longer he paused in his ministrations.

Ghosting his breath across her clothed sex, he whispered, “I believe that will be more than satisfactory.”

The Advisor moved to slip backwards, but a sudden pair of hands reached out to grasp fretfully at the back of his head, winding themselves within his hair in an effort to hold him in place. Evidently the Breton desired him to remain, but the victorious hum which he amusedly released, proved he knew that to be the case already.

“I assume you are holding me here for good reason?” he asked, punctuating his question with a sharp nip of his teeth to the Breton's thigh.

“I...” She coughed behind her hand, aware that the Advisor would undoubtedly notice the crack in her voice, “I am unsatisfied. Surely you are capable of doing better than that? Or is your quick tongue merely for show?” if possible, the admittance of the her desires caused the rosy hue of her cheeks to burn even brighter than before.

Ancano scoffed, “Consider yourself fortunate to receive verbal lashings, Breton, I have other methods at my disposal which would please you less.” he warned, emphasizing his point with a swift slap to the back of her thigh.

The force of the blow was carefully measured, a gentle but sharp contact of skin against skin, which did little but pull a surprised “Oh?” from the Breton.

“Now, as I recall, a certain College advisor – a rather haughty gentleman, as I remember – warned me not to presume of his shortcomings, and yet here you are, of the assumption that I am somehow a delicate Breton flower who... ” she inhaled a sharp breath when a pair of fingers hooked themselves into the waistband of her undergarments, dragging the cloth slowly down the curve of her hips, “who...gets herself into all sorts of bother on a daily basis, but can't handle a mere Altmer.”

“Need I remind you, I have been keeping a close eye on you. Please do not attempt some pitiful display of strength, you are barely able to control your own natural desires in my presence.” fingertips dove into damp curls, the edge of his thumb grinding roughly against the delicate bundle of nerves, hooded and slick with desire.

“A-Ancano...” she gasped, her head falling against the wall before she could drink in the sight of the Advisor, whose tight-lipped expression had begun to crack, “Whatever it is you may have seen, there is a perfectly valid explanation...if...if only you give me a moment to think of one.”

Of course, there was no way to disguise the treacherous evidence of her arousal, slick against her thighs and glistening under the flickering illumination of the magical ward the Altmer had placed on the archway. Nevertheless, the Breton would have plenty of time to think of an excuse, for Ancano had other, more urgent matters to attend to between the Breton's splayed legs.


	11. Chapter 11

Roving fingers further fanned the flames of the Breton's desire, but for all the magicka in her veins, the Breton could scarcely summon a dusting of frost to cool her skin, which already glistened with perspiration.

The elf's slim fingers plunged into the depths of her core without warning, but all he offered was a a teasing thrust of his wrist before the appendages were pulled from her. Slick, they languidly smeared the nectar of her arousal across blushing, blossoming folds.

Ancano swallowed, flicking his tongue across parched lips and drinking in the sight of the shuddering woman above, all in the hopes of sating the hunger which threatened to consume him.

“This...this is certainly none of your doing...” she began, a sharp intake of breath following the unexpected sensation of a hand reaching to cup her from behind.

The Advisor arched a brow, twisting on the spot and – with a surprising lack of finesse - tossed the Breton upon the edge of his bed. She landed with a soft thud, trembling thighs resting against a set of narrowed shoulders.

He roughly tore the lingerie from her body, throwing the damp garment to some darkened corner of the room.

High-strung, tense, he whispered against her thigh, “Do not insult my intelligence, Breton.” sharp teeth nipped at her skin. A semi-audible squeal brought the blood in his veins to boil.

The Breton wanted to toy with him, to question which areas she had been given free reign to insult, but her mind could barely form a coherent sentence, let alone a snide response. The warm puffs of his breath, hitting against her thighs, added to the cloying air of the room. The chill had completely vanished, replaced - at some unknown point in time - with a heady atmosphere, ripe to burst with anticipation.

The seconds ticked by with agonisingly pace. In theory, the Breton should have been prepared, but nothing could have prepared her for the thrill of Ancano's tentative tongue, lapping along her folds in practised motions, exploring all but where she desired it the most.

“G-Gods...” She groaned, an audible twinge of frustration to her tone, as she twisted the coarse bedsheets between her fists.

His fingers circled around her entrance, slowly slipping into her, curling against her walls in tandem with a rough nip to sensitive bundle of nerves caught between his teeth.

“Ah-!” she cried, uncertain of whether the garbled noise from her lips was an unconscious attempt at calling his name.

A tender suck, a gentle twist of his fingers against the delicate spot inside of her, each soothed the pain, until she arched from the bed. Her lips parted, hips unconsciously rolling upwards in a desperate cry for the contact of his tongue. 

This request he was, for once, happy to oblige.

Ancano locked his arms around the back of her thighs, pulling her forward with a firm grip. His face eased between her parted legs, mouth closing in on her womanhood. He lapped at her, the distinct flavour of the Breton – his Breton - flooded into his system with such ferocity, the twitch in his loins wracked the entirety of his body.

Her breath came in pants, each breath she drew into her lungs was as dissatisfying as inhaling the smoke from a fire. Nothing made a difference; she was dizzy, a lack of oxygen no breath could satisfy. Her skin tingled, pressure coiling outwards into her abdomen.

“Too much” she breathed, head drooping backwards with a drawn out moan. He paid her plea no heed, the onslaught of his tongue generous and cruel in equal measure.

Shaky arms leveraged herself against the bed, the muscles in her torso jolting, causing her stomach to tense and breasts to heave with each burst of pleasure surging through her.

Ancano pulled her to the edge, slowing the motion of his tongue to a teasing, running between moist folds until the flashes of light in the corner of her vision – visible through tightly closed eyelids - dimmed.

The pause was nothing more than an illusion, and the final touch of his tongue had her undone.

Bolting forward at the waist, the Breton grasped Ancano's head, fingers scrambling against the back of his head. She held him there while the movements of his mouth, the small slaps against her thighs, rode her through the wave of pleasure crashing over her.

She fell back against the bed, glinting droplets of sweat pooling on her skin.

A rustle of fabric and a weight settling against the bed caught her attention, forcing her eyes to move despite her hypnotic euphoria.

Settling himself over her, the light of the Advisor's iridescent ward caught the curtain of white which veiled his face from her view, the barest hints of gold and amber peeking between the mass of hair. He tossed his head to the side, reaching up to comb a hand through the messy halo of hair which crowned his head, once more tucking the messy strands behind his pointed ears.

Her heart filled with an inexplicable sensation of longing, something she would later attribute to the afterglow. Nevertheless, without thought, she caught the ends of his hair and tugged until his face was mere inches from her own.

He eyed her from the side when her mouth caught his lips. The lines of his face were as harsh as ever, but he clasped the Breton's chin between his fingers, returning the kiss with a sensual slowness.

Knuckles dragged over the side of her face, down towards her neck to rub her shoulder beneath the underside of his fingers. The touch of her skin against his own was interrupted by a thick chain, which he followed with his fingertips, to where an amulet lay on her chest, half-concealed by the neckline of her dress.

“An amulet of Mara?” the intricate metal pendant rested in the palm of his hands “Are you the type to believe in fanciful notions of love and romance? Or have you learned nothing of the Nords' customs?” he questioned with a scoff, as if the tenderness of the previous moment had been nothing of the sort.

“Would you have me reported to the Embassy for worship of a perfectly legitimate divine?” she playfully lifted a leg to graze it, up and down, the side of his own.  
The raised limb offered a seductive glance between her legs, which hungry eyes did not shy away from indulging in.

“No, I am merely making an observation.” he bit, his grip firm around the largest metal charm.

“Oh? Perhaps I am mistaken, but I believed the meaning of an 'observation' to be known across each realm of Tamriel.” She gave his hand a light slap, intent on dislodging his grip from her amulet.

He distracted her with the touch of his lips, a sensual clash of tongues until the lingering taste of her arousal filled their joined mouths, allowing the Advisor to discreetly pluck the amulet from around her neck.

“You possess a mediocre grasp over the schools of Conjuration and Destruction. I have been made aware of your progress within the school of Enchantment, however you lack any significant control over Restoration magic.” he explained, a sliver of moisture joining their lips together, “I am simply trying to understand the reasoning for possessing this amulet.” he locked his gaze on her face, intensely gauging her reaction.

“Forgive me, I had not been made aware that Mara's amulet was intended solely to enhance one's ma-” she was interrupted by strong arms pinning her hips to the bed, the Altmer's own grinding forward in one smooth movement. The dampness of her womanhood seeped into his clothing, but that fact barely registered with the Breton, not when she could feel the outline of his hard length pushing against her.

Tension pulled at the corners of his closed eyes, but still he spoke, “You have clearly learnt nothing, despite your progress. Equip yourself wisely, or is such a fundamental rule so difficult for one such as yourself to grasp? Until you have successfully memorized this basic rule, I will confiscate this trinket. You will not be needing it.” he dropped the amulet to the floor, a metallic clang reverberating around the walls.

She whipped her head in the direction of the noise,“I beg your pardon?” she asked, mouth agape and staring towards the discarded amulet which was not hers to give.

Fortunately for the Breton, Dinya was a priestess and would, Mara be praised, not have her head if she failed to return the piece of jewellery...or so she hoped.

“Is there a problem?” Ancano drawled, “We made this arrangement quite clear. In exchange for my precious time, you were to offer something in exchange.”

“Very well, keep it if you must...” she rolled her eyes, a motion caused – at least in part – by another grind of his hips,“but dear Ancano, I simply must remind you, you are hardly in a position to criticize anyone on the progress of their learning. Your teaching methods are atrocious. I may well have consulted a frost troll for instruction in the art of summoning an atronach.” she struggled through the rest of her sentence, hastily spilling the words from her mouth.

He carefully unclasped the robes from around his shoulders, speaking even as he discarded the topmost portion of his clothing from about his head, “I am not responsible for the shameful state of your form.”

“But I see you have no complaint of my 'form' in this very moment.” but it was the Breton herself who eyed the exposed expanse of the Altmer's chest, tracing each sharp line of his slim torso with her eyes.

Ancano huffed, suddenly grasping at the Breton to pull her dress and the remaining underclothes from her form. The action should have left the smaller woman wide-eyed, but the sides of her lips curled...the Altmer had – perhaps unconsciously – confirmed her statement.

He knelt, his hips between her bent legs, his chest against her chest, their bare skin touching. Her head angled upwards, his down, but they hesitated, in a sweet moment of uncertainty. 

A moment passed, but a downwards glance of the Breton's lustful eyes, peering through her thick lashes whilst she carefully unbuttoned his breeches, was all the direction they needed.


	12. Chapter 12

Stifling.

That was the best way the Breton could describe it; the heat, the tremors, and the overwhelming scent of lust which permeated every corner of the room.

Crackling moans wheezed from her throat, drying her parched lips even further. Ancano eased her discomfort with a slick tongue, her high-pitched sounds of delight muffled under ardent kisses.

The Breton squirmed impatiently in Ancano's hold; she was captured beneath a cell, fashioned from strong arms and even stronger desire. His very being was a prison to which iron bars seemed flimsy in comparison.

It came as no surprise that the elf was as authoritative in the bedroom as he was in his day-to-day affairs, particularly so when the Advisor's 'day-to-day' affairs consisted of unsightly dealings with the Thalmor. That alone was very telling of his bedroom habits.

It was stifling.

He was stifling...among many other things. Namely the many, varied, and descriptive expletives which threatened to roll from her tongue, encouraged by the humming pleasure between her thighs.

The Breton's thoughts were a muddle, a mess of raw emotions and colour, sounds and sensations, but her eyes saw the world in pure shades of red; a subtle cerise in thoroughly-kissed lips and a trail of mottled marks in rich berry hues, bruises from jagged teeth on delicate skin.

A huffed, “Ugh!” was all she managed to vocalize. An uncharacteristic grunt of impatience as her legs wound themselves around his hips.

“Is there something you wish to say?” he tried to feign haughty obliviousness, but the buck of her hips was so unexpected, the twitch of his length - bare against her womanhood – so instantaneous, it made maintaining such a facade impossible.

“There is, actually.” she sucked in air through her teeth and hissed as he ground his hips roughly, “If you would be so kind, then please, do get on with it.” the order was hardly romantic, and more than a little bit smug. It wasn't every day she broke the Thalmor's mask.

He scoffed, a gesture of contempt in direct contrast to his lithe fingers, cupping the swell of her breasts and caressing them with a tender touch.

“You are nothing more than a mere Apprentice, do not over-estimate your authority.” thumbs encircled their most sensitive points, giving the puckered and sensitive skin a sharp squeeze, “In the future, it would serve you well to articulate your requests in a manner which is far less obscure.” he emphasized his words with a gentle – yet patronizing - rock of his hips, as if the Breton was incapable of deciphering his implications.

“Such an odd suggestion. Where is the fun in that?” she laughed, but upon catching a glimpse of his heated gaze, the joyful sound tapered into nothing more than a whisper which was lost on her lips.

“I...” she caught herself before she could go further.

It would be all too easy to plead for his touch, or to beg for the taste of his name on her tongue with every thrust of his hips. She couldn't...surely...

“Well? I'd like to know exactly what it is you want.” he whispered against her ear, the dark and honeyed words pouring over every inch of her skin.

The Breton's pride was all that kept her in check, even as the treacherous evidence of her desire spilled from her womanhood. Had the Thalmor thought to conquer Tamriel with the power of their speech alone, they would have a great many of the populous on bended knee – and with drenched underclothes – in a quarter of the time the Great War had raged.

“This...” the barest and most gentle touch of his fingers grazed over the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs, “is a matter that cannot wait.” he ensured they lingered, slipping into her with ease.

“Ah!” shuddering, she used what little self-restraint she possessed to prevent herself from slapping a hand over her mouth.

'No, no, no, no.' her mind reminded – or rather, warned – her. This wasn't some fumble with a Breton farm boy in High Rock, or an embarrassing (and never-again-to-be-discussed) evening in The Bee and Barb. This was a liaison with the most temperamental Altmer in all of Tamriel. She hadn't gone through the trouble of getting on his good side, or challenged him to multiple battles of wits, only to leave his room without her pride. She'd already be leaving a – potentially - sore mess, and she doubted he'd have the courtesy to heal her again. The least she could do was ensure her ego remained intact...

...even though the dexterous motions of his fingers were doing everything in their power to make her submit.

She grabbed his hand, wrapping his fingers in her own and holding him there, ensnaring him as he had done her.

The thought of waiting another moment was inconceivable, but she couldn't beg, wouldn't beg...

“I want you, preferably for you to take me, now.” technically, she did not beg...but her cheeks still burned with the admission.

The Breton didn't even wait for a response before quickly snapping, “Are you quite satisfied?”

The question was completely rhetorical; one glance downwards would reveal his solid length, straining and trembling against her folds. He was but mere inches away from her entrance, so close that one rough thrust into her welcoming body would quench all of his desires. Desires which years of Thalmor association had failed to contain.

“I've no doubt you are aware of who, exactly, is in charge here?” he asked with a hiss, shaking his head with enough urgency to dislodge the hair from behind his ears.

If the veil of snowy-white strands falling around his face wasn't a sign of his waning control, then the Breton didn't know what was.

A sly arch of her back, a languid graze of her calves on the sides of his legs, and she had the grip of his hand on hers increased tenfold. It was almost painful, but if the sharp canines protruding between his parted lips and the deep lines set into his brow were of any indication, then it was not as painful as the desire for release building within him.

“Why...” she tried to ignore the way he put his teeth to use, marking yet another patch of untouched skin on her neck, “Why don't you tell me?” she asked.

“What?” he spat with affront, wrinkles forming across the bridge of his nose.

Was she challenging his control? Was she asking him to voice his needs? Neither of the pair could be entirely certain. There was, however, one thing they did know; their patience had worn thin. Searching hands and shared kisses were all well and good, but there was only so much longing one could take.

“Do not play coy with me, Breton. Tell me what you want” he ordered, hoisting her thighs apart and revealing the most intimate areas of her form to his ravenous gaze.

Ancano squeezed her supple flesh with enough force to leave bruised imprints beneath her skin. A subtle reminder of their coupling for the days to come...as if the obvious marks on her throat were insufficient.

“Ancano, I want...” she started, but stopped.

'You' was at the forefront of her mind, but somehow her words transformed into, “ I want you to cease being an arrogant fool, for one thing. Now, if you would be so kind; take me.” which wasn't quite the message she had intended.

The elf simply rolled his eyes, accustomed to the Breton's nonsense at this point...but not the slightest bit accepting of it.

It took a second for the humming charge of electricity to register in the Breton's ears, but a moment too long to stop the sharp crack of his hand against the underside of her thigh.

Breton blood shielded her from the brunt of the pain, but did not prepare her for another swift and stinging slap.

She buried her head back into her pillow, clutching at the sheets beneath her. His lips placing kisses in the centre of her throat, whilst she cried towards the ceiling in lustful abandon.

“Tell me...” he forcefully held her gaze, even as his hand fell against her skin once more.

“What...” another slap, another whine torn from her throat.

“You want...” another.

“Breton.” he panted, hot and heavy breath on her neck.

The Breton had thought it impossible for the Altmer to speak the name of her race in a tone other than contempt. She was, clearly, wrong.

“I want you, Ancano.” She mumbled incoherently between shaky breaths, grabbing at the back of his hair to pull him upwards.

Four simple words.

To think, she had spent hours on the family farm, hunched over yellowing pages, committing multiple passages and incantations to memory under the flame of a waning candle. All to escape the dreary life of a farm girl in High Rock, yet from her extended vocabulary and...moderate, knowledge, it was four simple words which would ignite the fire in her veins, and fill her with a rush of excitement beyond anything she could have dreamed.

Her submission still stung, but everything else felt oh, so, right; Ancano's teeth latched onto the junction where neck meets shoulder, careful not to break the skin even as the tip of his length roughly plunged into the depths of her core.

The Advisor grunted, another snap of his hips and willed his grip on her thighs to tighten. A desperate hold with enough pressure to match the hue of his fingertips with his hair. He fought against the urge to close his eyes. Instead he revelled in the sight of the Breton; her mouth opened wide, spilling cries of passion as her body shook with each forceful thrust.

“H-Harder!” she cried, even as she turned her head to catch a splash of blue – the tiniest of cool pigments – glinting up at her from the floor.

Mara's amulet.

Mara watched their coupling, her innocent blue muddied into Dibellan purple as the Breton allowed herself to be consumed by hazy images and overpowering sensations, filtered red through rose-tinted lust. The Altmer and the Breton painted a debauched picture; a portrait of tangled limbs and slick skin, of writhing bodies, rutting in a primal battle for release.

Lewd echoes of skin slapping against skin echoed around the room, audible in spite of the Breton's unintelligible noises of pleasure, which grew increasingly loud as Ancano shifted the angle of his hips.

“S-stop! Ancano, I-” she could feel her own release building in the depths of her stomach. The steady pace of his thrusts hitting untouched spots inside of her and shocking her to the very core.

She arched with a silent cry, every muscle in her being pulled taut as she clung to him in desperation.

The Breton's release signalled the beginning of the elf's. Warmth pouring over him in waves as he scrambled to embrace her, his sharp nails digging into her curved spine. With a shuddered groan, he felt his engorged length twitch, spilling himself inside of her.

Sated and overcome with exhaustion, the Breton fell back against the bed. She hadn't even the energy to object when Ancano's form settled lightly atop her, a shaky arm all that held him from bearing all of his weight down on her.

“I-” she couldn't speak, consumed with drawing air into her lungs. She needed to cool the scorching temperature of her skin, even though the kiss he pressed to her lips made the action difficult.

Fortunately for the Breton, the presence of her discarded amulet completed the task for her; the more she looked at it, the more she remembered his words, and the more unsightly it became.

She had initiated...this, but the gravity of the situation, of what they had done, was becoming more and more apparent.

'Are you the sort to believe in fanciful tales of love and romance' he had said...or something like it anyway. The Breton couldn't quite remember, previously far too pre-occupied with her inappropriate thoughts.

A chill settled within her stomach, chasing away the thrill until she felt nothing more than his larger frame above her and the kisses he dropped along her throat, in what she could only hope was not a false display of intimacy.

'Oh Mara, what will happen once the afterglow is gone?' her brows lowered at the thought.

Ancano watched her with curiosity. He was not naïve; the time he had spent behind stone archways, around the side of dusty bookcases and lingering in the shadows, waiting for her alone, it was enough to make him aware of the Breton's foolish thoughts...at least to some degree.

“Tell me, Ancano, why do you bear such ill will towards pastries?” it seemed the Breton would breech the silence first.

The question, however immaterial, was entirely expected of her, and so the elf could do nought but simply roll his eyes at the troublesome woman.

“This is irrelevant.” his gaze travelled down the length of her legs, reaching out a hand to unexpectedly soothe the areas he had accosted with destruction magic.

“On the contrary, dear Ancano, there are a great many men in Skyrim, those who would find my pillow talk most enjoyable and entirely relevant to the situation at hand.”

Now, that captured his attention.

“Has your tongue become so accustomed to the bland offerings of the Nords? It is necessary to resist meaningless temptations, no matter their appeal.” Ancano looked at her, or rather, tried to look through her...

He couldn't.

No amount of sneering or pomposity could change the fact that he couldn't resist, and that these 'meaningless temptations' of which he spoke were not confectioneries.

“If you're just going to dodge my questions, then perhaps I should take my amulet and leave? I'm sure Enthir would prove a much better partner, he has been dogging me for weeks.” her heart began to beat rapidly in her chest in the instant his fingers ensnared her wrist, holding her in place.

“That won't be necessary.” he flicked a glance in her direction, “You no longer require an Amulet of Mara.”

“And why is that?” she questioned, concealing her face from his view and hoping, beyond hope, that he couldn't catch the glimmer of anticipation in her voice. She swore, if he used some magical excuse once again...

“I have made my intentions quite clear, Breton.”

Ancano wouldn't voice his feelings out loud - of course he wouldn't – but he grasped her chin, his amber eyes searching the depths of hers intensely. If that wasn't enough to make his intentions known, then the deep and tender kiss he pulled her into would.

“My, my, the haughty Thalmor, who has ever criticised the race of men.” swinging her legs, she laid across his torso, “This is proof he doth protest too much.”

“Yes. Speaking of which, please, do explain the purpose of these...” the rustling of paper caught her attention.

“Do you think me a fool? I would not reveal my master plan so easily.” she wasn't even going to question how he had discovered – or why he had bothered to confiscate - her ridiculous plans to have him exiled from the College.

Ancano may never give her gold or jewels. He would likely never gift her with beautiful dresses worn by the nobility in High Rock. Chances are, he wouldn't even woo her as he would a well-respected Altmer lady. She was simply a farmer's daughter, a Breton thrown into Skyrim, and a victim of fate and circumstance. Still, perhaps her origins weren't anything to complain about, after all, it had sown the seeds of something between them, and for now she would bask in the strange intimacy they had came to share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to expend on the whole Enthir situation and show more friendly interaction between the two, but I'm not so great at multi-chapter fics and don't have much time for writing right now. I really wanted to complete this fic though, so even though it eventually ended up falling into the 'jumps into lust' type category, I hope it was still enjoyable!


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